Time to Rebuild (The Ruins You Left Behind)
by SocialHemophilia
Summary: This is a story about how Tony Stark helped Clint Barton get his feet back on steady ground, about how the Avengers became a fully, possibly less-dysfunctional team. It's about what SHIELD wants with the abandoned Chitauri weaponry and the dire consequences of old ghosts rising up to steal it. It's about the ghosts and shadows that hide within SHIELD itself.
1. Chapter 1

_"I told her once I wasn't good at anything. She told me survival is a talent." -Susanna Kaysen_

Clint wakes up gasping for breath more often than not these nights, a scream trying to claw it's way out of his throat, his vision blurry and tinged with blue.

Tonight is no different, though the nightmare is.

He wakes suddenly; no warning, just a sharp intake of breath through his nose, right hand shakily sneaking to the underside of his pillow, tightly gripping the butt end of the gun tucked away.

Clint is no stranger to nightmares, to the horrors his own bent mind will concoct, and though he knows a gun is poor protection against the shadows of nightmares, it nevertheless provides him with an instinctive sense of security, of safety. And isn't that just a bit fucked, he thinks, that a _gun_, an object meant to instill fear in the masses, a weapon of destruction, of _death_, serves as his _security blanket?_ The universe, he decides, has a morbid and perverse sense of humor.

He's never dreamed of killing Coulson before, of slicing through his chest as smoothly as he would cheese, the handle of Loki's spear a cold thrumming weight in his hands. His brain had never before so readily provided these images. The thin line of blood spilling from the edges of thin lips. The bright red smeared mark left on the wall of the Helicarrier, a memory, a statement, an attack, a message; a promise.

It isn't until he shivers at the memory that he realizes he is drenched in a cold sweat, sweat slicked hair plastered to his face, clothes sticking to his skin. It's been a month since the Chitauri attack, a month since his mind was assaulted, his body invaded, his will eviscerated.

His fingers are clenched around his gun in a painful white knuckled grip. He closes his eyes and, for a moment, forces himself to breathe in an attempt to cage the stirring panic rising within.

Inhale.

Exhale.

He's safe.

He's in his apartment in Stark Tower, or rather Avengers Tower— has been since a couple of weeks after the invasion.

He needs to remind himself.

There have been too many occasions where he'd woken up believing himself captured, in unfamiliar territory, would shoot at shadows, and commence his frantic search for Natasha; both his subconscious and conscious refuse to leave her behind, no matter the scenario.

Slowly releasing the gun, he untangles himself from his sheets and heads to the walk-in closet set in the east wall of his bedroom. It's overwhelmingly spacious; Clint knows if he were to hang all his clothes there would still be too much space left over, too many open spaces. He takes off his sweat-drenched shirt, tosses it beside his open bag and rummages around for a clean fresh one. He hasn't bothered unpacking.

It's three in the morning and while normally he would head to the personal shooting range Stark built for him, he finds himself too worn, too tired, too weary. Instead, he makes his way out of his apartment and into the elevator, pressing the button that will take him down to the communal floor of the tower.

He isn't sure what he is looking for when he arrives. If he were truthful with himself, he would admit to a lack of significant time being spent in this space, preferring to divide his time between his apartment, the range, and Nat's floor. If he were truthful with himself, he would admit his choices had nothing to do with preference, and everything to do with avoidance.

The elevator opens to a part of the tower that is open like no other. There is a communal kitchen that spans the far west wall, a long steel dining table off to the side. The living room is in the center; the entertainment system spanning the north wall that is entirely made up of reinforced glass. Even though it's three am, the floor isn't shrouded in darkness like he expects. Rather, the lights are dim enough for him to easily find his way. He can see there is someone in the kitchen, sitting atop one of the chairs facing the lengthy counter. For a moment, he thinks about silently stepping back behind the steel doors of the elevator, making his way back up to the confines of his floor.

"That you, Legolas?" Clint hears, mentally berating himself for ever leaving his floor at all.

Ambling out of the elevator, he silently makes his way over to the billionaire, taking up the empty seat beside him.

"Hey, Stark," he says, his tone neutral. Clint learned long ago never to show his weaknesses, to keep his walls up at all times, regardless of who was around. Coulson and Natasha were the only exceptions to the rule, thus living proof of the rule itself.

With a snort, Stark replies, turning to him, tumbler in hand, "We've saved the world from an evil destructive horde of aliens and one crazed megalomaniac god, pretty sure we entered first name territory somewhere way back up the road there, sweet cheeks. Probably 'round the time said megalomaniac god stupidly began attacking New York, but hey, who's keeping track of the interpersonal interactive progress of Nick Fury's ragtag superhero team?"

Clint knows Stark isn't drunk for all he sounds like it; he read Nat's character file on him, knows Stark is an ingenious rambler, the type to talk endlessly without saying anything of use, without revealing a single thing of himself, words spewing from his mouth on every exhaled breath, going off on expert tangents winded and lengthy enough to distract even skilled interrogators. But Clint sees better from a distance, and even though he hasn't spent much time with anyone from his team other than Natasha, doesn't mean he hasn't been watching, hasn't been paying attention to the new people he is surrounded by. He can hear the hidden words of Stark's rant, _we may have saved the world together, but we are not a team. _As bitter as the thought may be, Clint can't help but agree.

His shoulders tense slightly when he finds a full crystal tumbler of whiskey being placed right in front of him. Picking it up (more out of habit rather than an intention of drinking it) and swirling the liquid content inside, he finally turns to Stark, straightforwardly meeting his gaze. He looks tired, Clint decides. Even in this dim lighting Clint can see the weary lines that surround his mouth, the dark circles beneath his bloodshot eyes, the creases of his faded Black Sabbath shirt, the grease stains marring his torn up jeans. Glancing around, he sees an empty mug - of what Clint presumes was coffee - a little ways away from Stark atop the kitchen counter. He looks disheveled in a way only being cooped up in his workshop for innumerable hours in an engineering binge produces.

"You look like shit, Stark. When's the last time you got a decent night's sleep?"

Stark runs a hand through his Byzantine hair, "Huh, can't really remember. Few days ago maybe? Been struggling with a recent project. Honestly, Merida, did a bow and arrow have to be your weapon of choice? According to SHIELD you're the 'world's greatest marksman,' couldn't you just have chosen a pretty gun and been done with it, instead of going all antique on my ass? I swear, you people enjoy making my life even more difficult than it already is. Uh, you gonna drink that?" He finishes with a pointed look at the still full tumbler Clint is holding in his hand.

Looking down at the glass, Clint makes a decision he will later blame on impeded mental functioning directly resulting from his severe lack of sleep. "I, uh, don't really drink," he states somewhat awkwardly, setting the tumbler down quietly. He's thankful the engineer decidedly ignores the slight tremors running through his hands. "I also have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, Stark. What does it matter to you that I prefer a bow and arrow to a gun?"

"You really don't pay attention to our briefings, do you? Can't say I blame you, though. Hell, I zone out more often than not - I have far better things to do with my time than listening to Fury talking about his plans to make us a more cohesive team and all that fun jazz. But I would've thought the part of me putting myself in charge of the Avengers' weapons was something that would've filtered in through that tiny bird brain of yours there, Katniss."

Clint remembers; the briefing was last week, held in one of the many conference rooms within the vast confines of SHIELD Remembers Stark saying he didn't trust SHIELD with their weapons, claiming he could do a better job of not only fixing them, but improving them. Rogers was even inclined to agree, muttering something about Phase Two Clint didn't understand and didn't want to. Stark basically took over the R&D Avengers Initiative sector, much to the grim disappointment of the SHIELD scientists. But Clint designed his own bow and arrows, only sending his design specs to SHIELD's R&D department in order for them to produce them. He thought Stark knew that.

"I design my own bows and arrows, Stark. No need to worry your pretty little genius head over little ole me," he ends in a slight mocking tone.

At the mention of this, Stark's eyebrows predictably rise up, perilously close to his hairline. Clint receives a similar reaction every time someone finds out he designs his own weapons. He typically finds them a hilarious sight and can hardly curve his impulse of telling people just how utterly ridiculously they look, except this time he feels none of that. He feels tired, tired of having so few people believe he is actually capable of such feats, that he is more than a mindless hired gun. Even when he was a freelance assassin he didn't just take any job available, not even when he could have certainly used the money. If a job felt wrong, off in any way, if he felt the mark didn't deserve to meet the end of one of his arrows, he never took it.

"Seriously? You telling me all those trick arrows of yours are your own design? Damn. I knew you had a great tactical mind, what with the attack on the Helicarrier and all - great virus there by the way - but didn't know you had a knack for engineering there, Legolas. What other fun stuff has Super Secret Spy School taught you?"

Clint is taken aback, struggling to hang on to what's left of his composure. He shouldn't be surprised, Nat's report gave the acute impression Stark was one of a kind. Clint thinks he is starting to see what she might have meant by that, even if she initially may have meant it as an insult.

"Uh, thanks," he answers a bit hesitantly. "This wasn't something they taught me though, it's just something I've kind of always done since I took up my bow. What's giving you so much trouble, anyway?" He doesn't mention that growing up in the circus he had to make most of his arrows by hand because there wasn't enough money to purchase a new set for him when the old wore out.

"I've been trying to modify your explosive arrows, give the blast a wider radius, you know, more boom for less buck. But admittedly, I don't know enough about bows and arrows and your shooting style to know how much weight I can add onto either the shaft or arrowhead until the system is destabilized to the point where you can't make a straight shot."

"Are you going for manually denoted arrows or are you designing the type that go off on impact?"

"Manually, can't have stray arrows blowing up things that shouldn't go boom - oh, don't look at me like that, I know you have perfect aim and all that, but that's no defense against someone just swatting away one of your arrows out of their way, now is it? What does it matter, anyways?"

"Manually detonated arrows have the extra weight of the receiver. If the weight is already too much on the arrowhead or the upper part of the shaft, then you can add the receiver to the nock and run a thin wire down the inside of the shaft to meet the explosive at the end. What-" Clint trails off at the slight manic look he can see on Stark's face as he slides off his stool, promptly downs the rest of his drink, a sleek black StarkPad seemingly conjuring in his other hand. His stomach curls uncomfortably; Natasha's warned him about that look.

"JARVIS, fire up the workshop, pull up the schematics of Hawkeye's new arrows, and let's have some music playing, the night is far from over, babe."

"As you wish, my dear," responds the AI with what Clint suspects is a hint of fondly exasperation.

"Stark what are you—"

"Come on, Legolas," he says, tugging Clint by the arm down the dim lighted hall to the elevator. "You're going to appreciate this, I've got all the pretty little toys to fulfill your heart's desires."

Once in the elevator, they immediately begin the descent to their destination without having even pressed a button. Clint will never admit just how impressed he is with Stark's AI; JARVIS is by far the most advanced AI out there, and being impressed by the AI meant he was impressed with Stark himself which, yeah he was (it was hard not to be), but the man had a big enough ego as it was; this was not a fire Clint needed to feed.

A minute later, the doors open to reveal a wall of, what Clint is astonished to note, is clear adamantium glass. Where Stark got enough of the rare and expensive material and how he managed to convert it into a clear glass form, is something Clint thinks Fury is dying to know so he can possibly cover the entire Helicarrier with a thin layer of it.

At the door, Stark types in a code onto a touchscreen panel set off to the side, places his hand against a scanner, and leans in to have his retina scanned.

Seeing his raised eyebrow, Stark says, "I decided to upgrade security after - well yeah. Anyways, after you Merida," he finishes stepping off to the side, allowing Clint to walk in through the now open door.

If there were a physical representation of Stark's mind, Clint thinks, his lab would fit the bill. The space is largely open and vast. There is a steel "U" shaped workbench set in the middle, a single sleek black leather chair set before it, holographic screens floating above. Bits and pieces of tech are strewn about everywhere, among them numerous arrowheads and shafts. Down on the south side, there are two diagonal lines of various model cars; Clint recognizes a 2011 white Tesla Roadster and a matte metallic blue Jaguar XKR-S Coupe. AC/DC's "If You Want Blood (You've Got It)" blares from the speakers. Clint wonders if the floors and walls are reinforced with adamantium as well.

"So, about these receivers," Starks begins, strutting to the workbench, flicking his hand, and enlarging the holographic schematics in his hands, "you said to place them on the arrow's nock if I had too much weight in front. How much is too much weight here, Barton? And how much can these receivers weigh if I'm placing them on the nocks? I can't imagine the tail end of an arrow can handle that much weight and still fly steadily."

Clint glances at the schematics hanging in the air, "Are you making the arrow shafts out of fiberglass, Stark?"

Without bothering to look up from his own set of schematics, Stark replies, "Yeah, why? Fiberglass is great, sturdy material. Not as easy to shatter."

Clint shakes his head. "It's too heavy to be adding all of these extra things onto it. Besides, fiberglass is best for bow fishing. Make the shafts out of carbon, it's lighter, and allows you to adjust the weight as needed. Do you have the schematics for my bow?"

"Of course," he replies in a slightly offended tone, pulling up another holographic screen and tossing it Clint's way.

"Are you playing AC/DC's greatest hits or something here, Stark?" Clint asks, letting a hint of amusement enter his tone, when the sound of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" start coming through the workshop speakers.

"Why, yes Merida. Nice of you to recognize. I'm relieved to know you aren't a completely uncultured swine like the rest of 'em."

Rolling his eyes, Clint begins looking over the specs for his bow and the new explosive tipped arrows Tony was planning, making corrections and adjustments where he sees fit, explaining to Tony that any arrow he uses has to be compatible with the design and feel of his bow. They spend the next several hours like this, working on design specs, Tony sitting in his chair, Clint sitting atop the bench, AC/DC's greatest hits blasting through the speakers. It's been a while since Clint has been able to focus so intently on something other than his shooting since the invasion; he welcomes the relaxed feel of his muscles and the razor sharp focus of his mind; he can breathe down here.

When Clint finally checks the time, it is eight in the morning. Over the last five hours he and Stark have figured out the weight parameters for the new explosive arrows and even managed to commence the bare schematic designs for EMP arrows as well as for ones tipped in acid (Clint will admit to feeling weary of carrying those around).

They've progressed from AC/DC to Led Zeppelin, and the initial sultry tones of "What Is And What Should Never Be" are the only sounds within the workshop. Clint looks up when he hears a whirring sound, only to find one of Stark's robots headed his way, a small white something in its claw like hand. Finding a small white bottle being precariously set next to his thigh he glances over at Stark, he can see the man is seemingly immersed in the schematics in front of him; thankfully, Clint knows better.

"What are these?" he asks, picking the bottle up and reading the label.

"Sleeping pills," Stark replies, eyes never straying from the images in front of him. "Don't really know how they expect us to sleep like babies after everything that happened. These, uh, usually help me, when I can't sleep, which tends to be most nights, but that's beside the point. Take 'em. I have more. Poppin' two usually does me right in. Now thank Dum-E before he dumps a smoothie on you, don't think he won't, the cheeky little bastard."

Gripping the bottle tightly in one hand, Clint looks over at Dum-E who - for a robot - strikingly resembles a puppy waiting for a treat after delivering the newspaper. "Uh, thanks, Dum-E." He's met with a high-pitched whirring sound.

"He doesn't seem as advanced as JARVIS," Clint comments, watching the bot make his way around the workshop picking up random scraps of metal and tech here and there.

"That's because he's not," Stark pipes up, swiveling his chair to look over at Clint. "I built Dum-E when I was a teenager at MIT, must have been like seventeen, I think. JARVIS came a few years after, then You and Butterfingers."

"Of course you were a seventeen year-old at MIT." He knows this is right around the time Stark lost his parents.

Stark shrugs and swivels his chair back to continue working on the schematics for the new acidic arrow.

"Tony?" Clint asks, a well of unidentifiable emotion rising within him.

At the mention of his name, the engineer turns to look back at Clint, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Thanks," Clint says, allowing the honesty and gratitude he feels to color his tone.

Tony's brown eyes soften a little as he nods, reaching in front of him and enlarging the schematics to the acid arrows.

"So, if we're really going to try these arrows out, we'll need to make sure your quiver can hold all of these different arrows together without explosions happening and acid dripping down your back."

"Wait, how are you even planning on containing the acid within the arrows themselves?"

"I was thinking a small container lined with Alloy 20. It's corrosion resistant and-"

"Solves the problem of having any unwanted potential cracks. Smart."

"Resident genius here, of course it's smart."

"But if you're planning on putting this container on the arrowhead or upper shaft, we're going to have to find something to place on the nock or lower part of the shaft to balance out the extra weight of the alloy. And just how much sulfuric acid are we planning on me carrying on my person? Because I gotta tell ya, the idea of having acid dripping down my back is worse than the idea of having the Hulk punch me straight in the face."

"Awww and ruin your dashing good looks, Legolas? I took you for a vainer man than that."

"Fuck you, Stark," Clint shoots back, laughing; he can't seem to help himself. "Not all of us can afford great plastic surgeons to make us look all pretty again after getting our faces bashed in."

"Ah, you wound me, Merida," Tony says, holding a hand to his chest, above his arc reactor, while gasping as if actually wounded, mirth filling his eyes. "I'm au naturel, baby," he continues, with a wink, a smirk on his lips.

"Anyhow," continues Tony, flicking his hands, gathering all of the files, "how 'bout we continue this some other time? Pepper should be coming over in the next hour and I desperately need a shower, I don't even want to know what I smell like."

"Exceedingly gross, Sir, the essence of motor grease and oil hangs about you," comes JARVIS' voice.

"Dammit, JARVIS You're supposed to lie in order to preserve my self-esteem," Tony shoots back.

"My sincerest apologies, Sir, but you have not programmed me to lie," continues the AI and Clint can swear he hears a tinge of sarcasm in the words.

Tony stops mid-stride for a moment and then guffaws. "Ok, now I know you're just fucking with me JARV."

Clint hops down from his perch on the workbench, pockets the bottle of sleeping pills, and makes his way to the door alongside Tony. "You programmed your AI to lie?" he asks, because that seems like a counterproductive thing to do to a system also serving as your primary form of security.

"Technically, no," Tony replies, chuckling as he goes through his security measures to lock down his lab (apparently only a code is needed to lock the doors), "he's a learning AI and for years all he had was me to learn from. You can only imagine the things he picked up from a twenty something-year-old Tony Stark. Okay, lets shut it down, Jay."

The lab room immediately grows dark. At first, Clint thinks it's a result of JARVIS turning off all the lights, but upon closer inspection he can see that it's the adamantium glass that has grown dark. Clint can't help but widen his eyes in surprise and look over at Tony.

"After Vanko and Hammer," Tony explains, a strange light in his eyes, "well let's just say I went through a creative engineering binge. A lot of interesting things came out of the weeks I spent holed up in my workshop. Not even Pepper could get me to come out, and she's usually the only one who can manage it. Don't know how. Miracle, how our relationship didn't crash and burn then, considering how little she saw of me. Anyways, Fury doesn't know the half of it, for all that the bastard keeps trying to hack me again."

Even though he can't see him, Clint can hear the smug smirk on his lips. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he waits until they step into the elevator to say, "Fury never technically hacked you. That was, uh, that was me actually."

"An engineer _and _a hacker? You're a man after my own heart, Barton. I swear, if I wasn't with Pepper," he ends, waggling his eyebrows in Clint's direction. "That something Super Secret Spy School taught you or just another thing you knew how to do and they just took advantage?"

"The latter," Clint says sniggering, not bothering to pretend he isn't amused by Tony. "Wasn't aware you played for both teams, Stark. Think your file needs to be updated."

"Haven't you heard, sweet cheeks? I play for any team that has a fine enough ass. One of these days," Tony says, giving Clint a searching glance, "you are going to tell me how you learned all these things. I've read your file too, you know, but it's like you didn't exist before SHIELD. I could do a more extensive search, widen the parameters, hack a few government agencies, but that seems too invasive and, while others may not believe this, I do actually have boundaries—I just tend not to heed them. Besides, it would defeat the purpose of this whole living together thing we've got going on. The dear Director himself wants us to bond as a team, after all."

That's because I was a ghost before SHIELD, Clint thinks. Instead he says, "We'll see about that, Stark," and walks out of the elevator onto the living room of his floor.

When Clint moved into Stark tower it wasn't to a small bland one-bedroom apartment like the one he had moved into when he first joined SHIELD what seems like eons ago. Apparently, Tony had each floor customized to each Avenger; Clint knows there is a reason Tony gave him one of the highest floors available—second only to Tony's. Vaguely, he wonders whether Rogers' floor is themed in 1940s era style.

Clint's floor is all open spaces, tall archways, walls painted in a soft brown color that take on a light earthy hue when the sunlight enters through the large polished plate glass windows. His own personal kitchen is set against the east side of the wide floor plan. A soft ivory sofa sits in front of a large flat screen tv over by the west side, and as Clint roams his eyes over it he is unsurprised at finding a bare footed Natasha perched atop it, long legs placed perfectly in a lotus position, a well worn book opened between them, red hair framing her face.

Without looking up from her book, she softly states, "You weren't in your room."

"I was down in Tony's workshop." At the lifted eyebrow she sends his way, he amends, "He needed some help designing some new arrows, seeing as he knows jack shit about them." He knows her well enough to tell the slight pinch of her lips means she is holding back a smile; he also knows she noticed the use of Stark's first name.

She cocks her head, "Doesn't he know you design your own weapons?"

He shrugs, walking over and sitting on the arm of the couch, acting like the entire situation is no big deal. "Now he does."

His casual remark results in her sitting up even straighter, untangling her legs, closing her book, shifting her body in his direction, a searching yet cautious look in her eyes because she _knows._ He doesn't let other people design his weapons, even held out for months against allowing SHIELD scientists to produce them; Coulson had to convince him that he simply wouldn't have the time to create them himself before he relented. He is too tired and hollow to think about the reasons he has deemed Tony an exception to the rule.

Nudging her head in the direction of his bedroom, face a blank mask once again, she says, "Go change, we're sparring."

Groaning inwardly, he heads towards his open bedroom, not sparing a glance to the mess that is his bed, in search of his own workout tights and a t-shirt. He should have known just from the way she was dressed: black workout tights and an orange sports bra. It was Monday morning, what better thing had they to do at this time than spar? They haven't had a mission since the invasion took place (Clint suspects Fury believes they've earned an extended leave of absence for helping save the world) and while it feels odd to have as much down time as they do, Clint is actually somewhat enjoying the free time. He can't remember the last time they were free to spar on a Monday morning.

A few minutes later, they are walking through the glass doors of the expansive communal team gym. There is a formidable boxing ring taking up the far southwest corner, a Kevlar reinforced punching bag off to the side (everyone knows it was especially designed by Tony for Rogers on account of his post-serum strength), a rock-climbing wall spanning the entire east wall, and a sparring mat in the center of it all. They have the gym all to themselves at this time; Clint knows Tony is busy getting ready for Pepper's arrival, Roger's has already gone a few rounds with the punching bag and is now out for his ritual morning run, Bruce isn't one for using the gym unless it's a team workout, and Thor does not seem to believe in rising before noon unless there is an emergency requiring the god's presence.

Clint and Natasha both set their towels and water bottles off to one side of the mat, walk towards the middle of it, and immediately take up a fighting stance. He turns his body slightly to the side, left leg facing the front, right leg off to the back, knees moderately bent, hands closed into fists held faintly below eye level. Natasha's stance mirrors his, except that her hands are open in front of her, palms parallel to each other. Her stance allows for quicker movements and easier take downs. They immediately start circling each other, each searching for an opening.

Natasha fights like she's been trained for it (she was), all sleek lines and unhesitating fluid movements and perfect stance. Her every move is controlled and perfectly executed, rarely resorting to dirty tricks, because she's just that good. She's both beautiful and deadly when she fights; barely breaks a sweat when fighting a normal person. Clint, on the other hand, is all about dirty fighting. Growing up an orphan and in the circus provided him with the life lessons that resulted in him being a decent fighter out of sheer necessity rather than want. His stance isn't perfect, but it's strong. His hits may not be as controlled, but they always still seem to hit their mark. Natasha fights, and she makes it look like a well-choreographed dance, as simple and smooth as inhaling a breath. Clint makes it look like a bar fight. He's gotten better though, since sparring with her. His lines are sleeker, his hits quicker; with her he can fall into the dance she seems to effortlessly choreograph. But still, when in the thick of a difficult fight, he gets uncontrolled, loses the poise Natasha taught him, and the dirty fighting from his younger days emerges.

When Natasha lunges, he immediately moves to block it, planting his feet, and quickly sidestepping out of her range. They move like this for several minutes, one of them lunging forward with a punch or a kick and the other either blocking the hit or sidestepping it. This is their own personal dance and Clint revels in it. Sparring with Natasha never fails to clear his mind of the perpetual shadows that lurk within. When they first began sparring together, Natasha would beat him flat down onto the mat within the first five minutes for all of SHIELD to witness. Clint cannot recall a more humbling experience. Now, several years into their partnership, the iconic moment is still talked about in the halls of SHIELD, the difference now, though, is that he can hold his own - for a lot longer at least. He's sent staggering when Natasha lands a strong roundhouse kick squarely onto his shoulder, and as he struggles for just those few seconds to regain his footing, Natasha seizes her opening, twisting her body in the air. Clint, thinking she is going for the classic restraining thigh maneuver, plants his feet a slight width apart, puts his hands up, palms open, in the hopes of catching a leg, when she pushes off of him only to quickly land behind him and swiftly kick his feet right from under him. Natasha may not fight dirty, but she is _sneaky, _which may actually be worse.

He's been laying flat on his back atop the mat floor for a couple of seconds, catching his breath, when his line of vision is filled with two red and yellow objects.

"Here," Natasha says, shoving what he can now see is a small strawberry yogurt and a banana at him, along with a plastic spoon. "Eat."

Wordlessly, he sits up, legs outstretched in front of him, and begins to unwrap the foil covering of the yogurt. He knows Natasha worries about him, more so now than before; he's had rough missions before, but he's never been unmade like this. She has. Every morning she arrives on his floor, seeking him out, making sure he eats, even when he insists he isn't hungry (she knows all too well how his body responds to stress), making sure he showers instead of just laying in a blanket tangled heap in his bed all day like he wishes he could, desperately trying to ameliorate the hollow feeling in his chest.

"Thanks, Nat," he says as he finishes the yogurt, grabs the banana, and begins peeling back the skin. She's sitting cross-legged in front of him.

"Clint," she says so softly he almost misses it, his name barely a whisper leaving her lips. "It'll get easier," she continues, in that same faint tone; he can't bring himself to meet her eyes. "Getting unmade like you did, it's hard, possibly one of the worst things anyone can ever experience. I know you feel like you can't trust yourself, like you're drifting, your feet on unsteady ground; putting those pieces of yourself back together will take time. Just know that you can trust me, when you feel like you can't trust yourself."

He looks up at her now, meets her green eyes directly, because she has to know, must know. "I trust you, Nat," he tells her, voice clear and firm, "I never stopped trusting you."

"Then talk to me, Clint." Any other time he would have joked about never having heard this imploring tone from her. Distantly, a part of his mind wonders how messed up he must be for her to get the closest she does to begging. "We've been here for weeks now. I know you still haven't unpacked."

"I can't talk about this now, Nat," he says, eyes dropping to the floor, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Clint."

"I'm...Christ, I'm still putting myself together here, Tasha. I don't...I don't know how to come back from this, okay? I know it wasn't me, but fuck, I remember it all Nat, and I can't… Fuck." He's vaguely aware he has crushed what remained of the banana in his hand.

Grabbing his free hand in her smaller softer one, she waits until he looks up at her to say, "We'll figure it out, okay? Don't run from this, Clint." He looks down at their joined hands, at the scrapes still healing across both their knuckles, at the tiny thin scars that litter their fingers from missions past.

He can hear the hidden words: _don't leave._ He isn't shocked, she knew, of course she did. He may see better from a distance, but Natasha didn't need distance; she saw all. He's thought about bolting, about grabbing his unpacked bag in the middle of the night, simply slipping out of the tower, taking out money from his numerous bank accounts, and holing himself up in one of his safe houses. The need is a restless itch against his skin, yearning to be scratched; no matter how open the spaces of the tower may be, he still feels trapped, confined, like an animal in a cage. He came here with one foot already out the door. He's aware SHIELD is keeping an eye on him, monitoring him for any signs of Loki's spell reemerging. Keeps receiving summons to head over on to medical, claiming he needs to be examined since he neither slept nor ate while under the Asgardian god's control. It's bullshit; Clint knows they are itching for a blood sample, which is why he throws each summons in the trash as soon as it's in hand. He remembers "_You have heart" _and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

Clint comes back to himself when Natasha hastily yanks him up to his feet by the arm, "Come on. Let's get you a real meal." Her tone is neutral, it's usual firm cadence.

They make their way over to the communal kitchen, Natasha's blatant attempt to get him to socialize. When they arrive, however, it is to the sound of two rising voices; one of them clearly Tony's. Clint glances over at Natasha; her expression is blank, her displeasure only expressed by the down turned corners of her lips.

Pepper and Tony are standing in the middle of the kitchen; Pepper in a black pencil skirt, silver blouse, striking black and red Louboutin heels, her hair in a simple elegant ponytail. Tony, on the other hand, is wearing a black AC/DC t-shirt, jeans, and is barefooted; he is leaning against the steel kitchen countertop, cradling a mug of coffee in his hands that proclaims, "Mechanical engineers do it with a ball and detent," a scowl on his face.

"I don't need to be there, Pepper, I don't want to. Hell, that was the whole point of making you CEO! So I wouldn't have to deal with these things."

"Tony. You may not be CEO anymore, but SI is still yours. Not only are you majority shareholder, you're Tony Stark, you're the face of SI and head of R&D. Since terminating weapons productions, a good percentage of our main revenue comes from what you produce Tony, you _know_ this," she retorts, sounding exasperated.

"Pep, Pepper, Pep. Come on. Let's just forget this, go to dinner, spend some time in the city, you and me."

"Yes, let's go to dinner, the _board of directors' dinner. _Tony—"

"Hey there, Wonder Twins!" Tony exclaims loudly when he notices their arrival, cutting Pepper off mid sentence.

Hand rubbing the bridge of her nose, Pepper says, "I expect to see you at that dinner, Tony, the board members need to know you are still dedicated to this company, _your _company," and stalks off towards the elevator, sending an "Agents Barton, Romanoff," along with a polite nod in their direction, a strained smile on her lips.

"Trouble in paradise, Stark?" Clint mockingly asks once the CEO is out of earshot.

"Just, you know, typical billionaire problems - oh wait, I guess you wouldn't know," Tony shoots back. "Anyways, nothing to see here kids, move along."

"You do know you're not that much older than us, right Stark?" Tasha says, walking towards the refrigerator.

"Semantics, Romanoff," he says, waving away her words with a flick of a hand, as he pours more coffee into his mug. "Or should I say Romanova?" he asks as an afterthought.

"Oh, god, please tell me there's still more coffee left," Clint hears Banner speak up. He's standing at the edge of the kitchen, in rumpled pants and a simple light blue t-shirt, faint stubble along his chin and cheeks. Clint frowns; he hadn't heard him approaching.

"Thank god," Banner says as Tony wordlessly passes him the half filled coffee pot and a green mug with the words "I break physics on the daily: I defy the principle of mass conservation" etched on its side. Clint wonders whether Tony created - or rather commissioned the creation - of similar mugs for the rest of the Avengers.

"Stay up all night down at the lab again, Bruciekins?" Tony asks the other scientist grinning.

With a yawn, Bruce replies, "Yeah. Started examining the molecular structure of the Chitauri. I sent the analysis over to you."

"Remind me again why we, a mechanical engineer and a physicist, are doing work better suited for a biologist?" Tony inquires aloud.

"Because you and the good Doctor over here are - dare I say - two of the best minds in the world, and besides you have the clearance. Minimizes paperwork," Clint helpfully supplies, handing over the carton of eggs to Natasha who is cooking at the stove. When she sends him a stern look, sighing, he unearths a pan of his own from the numerous cabinets and begins cracking eggs.

"Not to mention, you do hold a PhD in chemical engineering, Tony," Bruce adds.

"Seriously dude, how many degrees do you have?" Clint asks as he makes eggs just the way he likes them: sunny side up.

Looking over at Tony, he sees him standing next to Bruce, sipping his coffee, a thoughtful look on his face. "Huh, five, maybe? I'm not sure. I took a vacation once, got bored, and just went back to school for a while. Gained a few degrees that summer."

Both Clint and Bruce stare unabashedly at Tony, he even earns a searching glare from Natasha.

"What's everyone staring at Stark for?" Says Steve standing on the outskirts of the kitchen, looking from Tony to Bruce to Clint to Natasha and back again, confusion plainly written in the lines of his face. He's wearing beige khaki shorts and a white t-shirt, his blonde hair still wet from his shower.

"Don't worry Capsicle, they're only admiring my spectacular brilliance."

Clint snorts, returning to his task, "You wish, Stark. We're just wondering at how hopeless you are that you can't even manage to take a proper vacation."

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tony frown at this and, for a moment, he wonders whether he alluded to something negative in the engineer's life. But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Tony is all smiles, talking with Bruce about the Chitauri's molecular structure.

"Since when do you cook for the rest of the team?" Clint curiously asks his partner while he cracks another egg into the pan. It isn't uncommon for them to cook for each other, especially during joint missions, but cooking for the rest of the Avengers, is well, admittedly odd, and definitely not something he thought he would ever see her doing, not to mention time consuming.

"It's my day to cook breakfast," she replies calmly, flipping the pancakes in her long flat pan.

"Okay...since when do we have scheduled cooking days? And why wasn't I told about this?"

"Because before now, Bird Brain, you've been holed up in your own floor." Tony says, easily jumping into their conversation.

Before Clint can open his mouth, Tony continues, "And to answer your initial question, we started doing this after we realized that without these joint meal times there is a distinct possibility we may not see each other, even though we live together. Seriously, during that first week here, Bruce was the only one of you I saw, and that was only because we're working on this Chitauri stuff for Fury. Figured the least we could is meet for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

A part of Clint wants to protest this, hide himself away from these people, but then he remembers last night, and the sleeping pills Tony wordlessly gave him, no questions asked, and Tasha's soft voice promising they would figure this out, asking him not to run. He opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to find Natasha's own clear steady ones. Taking a breath, he says, "So, when is it my day to make breakfast?"

He expects Natasha's subtle, yet warm, smile. What he doesn't expect is for Tony to clap him on the shoulder, almost spilling coffee on his arm, saying, "Welcome to the Avengers Cooking Club, Katniss. Just a PSA here, Thor and I can't really cook, so we're only ever in charge of dinner, and on those days we get take out. Fast. Easy. And, the kitchen still stands at the end of the day. Win-win all around. Trust me." He's pathetically proud for not flinching at the unforeseen physical contact.

As if roused from his slumber by the sound of his name, Thor appears in the elevator, and promptly makes his way towards the kitchen. It's strange, Clint thinks, seeing Thor outside of his armor, in jeans, and a too tight red plaid button down shirt, his hair tied off at the back of his neck in a small ponytail, a few free thin strands framing his face. The scene before him is unexpectedly domestic in a way Clint hadn't thought possible.

"Good morning, friends! Ah, it seems the Hawk has left the nest. I take it you will be joining us for what I'm sure will be a fine breakfast, will you not Clinton?" Thor asks merrily, sporting an easy smile, as he sits down in one of the chairs at the table.

"Morning there, Point Break," Tony calls out, smirking, tapping Thor on the shoulder as he passes him.

"Call me Clint, big guy," Clint replies grinning. Thor seems to have that effect on everyone, people can't help but be friendly towards him. Maybe it has to do with his god status, he thinks.

It takes another twenty minutes before he and Natasha finish cooking breakfast and another ten before everyone is settled, scattered across various seats and surfaces, talking and eating. He sits at the kitchen table along with Natasha and Thor, who is enthusiastically telling them Asgardian war stories. Thor, Clint realizes, is easy to talk to; undemanding in his conversation, filling in the blank silent spaces with ease. In this aspect, the Asgardian resembles Tony; Clint can't help but be oddly comforted by that. Clint is a person of few words, preferring the quiet thrum of his thoughts, and sometimes it is comforting to have someone who effortlessly talks, words endlessly spewing from their mouth, demanding nothing of him in turn. While Thor tells them of the great Lady Sif, Clint watches his surroundings.

Steve is sitting on one of the barstool chairs reading a solid, paper and ink, newspaper as he eats his pancakes. Bruce and Tony sit on the other two barstools, intently leaning into each other, eating; Tony talking animatedly about subatomic particles and the certainty of the cell being the smallest unit of life, while Bruce intently listens, softly speaking up when there's a lull in Tony's chatter. Beside their plates are two steaming mugs of coffee.

The hollow weight in his bones doesn't feel quite so heavy anymore, doesn't feel quite as oppressive. Who knew the weight of nothingness would be such a burden, such an oppressive force, compressing his chest until the breath left his lungs in a sharp gasp. He takes a deep breath, and is amazed that he can without feeling the familiar pressure on his chest.

Apparently it's Steve's turn to do the dishes, so he gathers his, Natasha's, and Thor's plates, sets them on the counter beside Steve.

"Thanks, Clint," Steve says, warm eyes meeting his for a second, demure shy smile on his lips.

Clint secretly worries about Steve; the man is a walking barely breathing anachronism. He's not sure if anyone else has noticed how reserved the Captain is, how worryingly solitary. It can't be easy to sleep for seventy years only to wake up and find the world you knew no longer exists, that it has been morphed into a thing whose bare bones you barely recognize. It can't be easy to wake up to a world devoid of everyone you knew, everyone you loved, everyone who loved you in turn. And though Clint knows Steve can be unflinchingly polite, all soft all American smiles, he recognizes loneliness when he sees it, recognizes the dull barely there flicker in Steve's eyes. Clint wonders if Steve is depressed, wouldn't be surprised if he was; wonders if he is suicidal in any way, would be shocked if he weren't.

Clint worries about them all, about their stability as a team, about their stability as individuals. Before he can lose himself in his thoughts, however, Tony comes over and begins talking. It takes him a second to tune in.

"—go to the workshop. These new arrows aren't going to test themselves, plus there are still some things I'm unsure about and we never did finish discussing the design specs for those new acidic arrows of yours. Gotta talk about building you a new quiver and—"

"Shouldn't you be analyzing that Chitauri molecular analysis Banner sent your way?" Clint interrupts Tony mid sentence, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can trap them.

Tony pauses for a moment and Clint thinks he sees a brief flash of hurt in his eyes, but he blinks and Tony is all smiles.

"Hey," Tony says, his eyes quickly darting over to Natasha and back to Clint, "it's cool if you're busy or whatever. I mean, we can test them some other time and I can look into arrow making and figure some of this stuff out myself, no big deal, I'm a genius after all, if I can become an expert in chemical engineering in just a few months I can totally learn all there is to know about arrows in a few days—"

"I'm not busy," Clint cuts in knowing Tony is prone to keep on babbling. "Just figured that analysis must have a higher priority than my arrows."

"That analysis is boring, besides JARVIS will give me the run down of it later. I didn't just make him so he could insert sarcastic and snarky commentary into my daily life, you know."

No, Clint thinks, you didn't; but you also wanted to hear a voice besides the one in your own head. Tony, he's learned, does not do well in silence. It suffocates him, makes him tense, anxious, until he can't help but fill in the void.

Clint merely shrugs after having met Natasha's eyes past Tony, "Let me shower and change, I stink."

Tony grins, a slight manic gleam in his eyes.

Natasha silently follows him onto his floor, into his bedroom, and it isn't until the door closes behind them that she corners him.

"What changed?"

It's a simple question with a complicated answer. For a brief moment he thinks about asking her what she means, but he knows her, knows it would be futile, a waste of time and breath; besides, part of him doesn't want to circumvent the question.

He stands up from crouching down by his bag, a bundle of clean clothes in his hands, turns around from the closet to look at her, "He gave me something I needed, no questions asked. I…" He drops his eyes, unsure of how to get her to understand, before he brings them back up to hers again. "I can breathe around him, Tash. He's just there, doesn't demand anything from me, doesn't treat me differently, is willing to turn his back on me without looking over his shoulder; was only surprised that I designed my own weapons, and that I hacked him." He shrugs, a simple lift of the shoulders. "It's almost normal." After everything that has happened his mind screams for any semblance of normalcy.

She nods, and with that he turns to go into the bathroom leaving the door wide open in case she wants to continue their conversation. When he makes his way out to dress, his room is empty.

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, in sweatpants and a t-shirt, Clint is standing in front of the adamantium glass door wondering how to get Tony's attention over the pulsing music so he can get in. He watches Tony say something to thin air, and briefly Clint thinks the genius is talking to himself until the door opens; realizes Tony must have informed JARVIS to let him in.<p>

Walking in, he can see Tony has already pulled up all the specs for their arrows. There's an extra chair by the workbench. He takes up his perch, sitting crossed legged like the adult he is, and immediately starts looking over notes Tony has made on their designs. "Sweet Child o' Mine" by Guns N' Roses playing in the workshop.

"Okay, so, about these acidic arrows," Tony says enlarging the specs in front of them, "how about we hollow out the shafts, line them with Alloy 20, store the acid there? It would allow you to carry more."

"Won't work," Clint informs him, running a quick simulation for him. "Liquid inside would cause instability I couldn't compensate for. I may be able to hit a big target, but the shot will be nowhere near accurate. Too much risk."

"Just how deep into my systems did you manage to hack?" Tony asks, head cocked, speculating how much of his system Clint is familiar with to the point he can easily create a simulation.

"Deep enough."

"Huh. Can I use you to find gaps in JARVIS' security code? Not like we have anything big going on."

Clint turns to look over at him, watches as he pulls up a log he recognizes from when he hacked him the first time. He sees Tony's eyebrows steadily make their way to his hairline the more he scrolls down the log.

"You're good," he says nodding to himself. "JARVIS wasn't even aware you were there until ten seconds in. Definitely gave my AI a run for his money there, 'cOmrade.' But seriously, you should don a white hat and help me plug any security holes. We can make a day out of it, last one to hack into JARVIS' mainframe gets stuck with kitchen duty," he finishes waggling his eyebrows over at him. **

"You're crazy, Stark," Clint says chuckling. "You're on. Just give me a date and time and I'm there."

Clint spent the rest of the day holed up in Tony's workshop, designing new arrows while Tony began building prototypes of both the acidic and explosive ones they had designed during the night. He even took over music selection at one point telling Tony he obviously needed to familiarize himself with music from this century and decade; just because he wasn't born in this century didn't mean he could simply ignore the generation's music. His response to that had been to grudgingly tell JARVIS to play whatever horrors Clint considers good music after five straight minutes of ranting about the cultural value of bands like AC/DC, Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin. Clint started off with Nirvana (figured the 90's were as good as any middle to start with), then moved on to Smashing Pumpkins, then to Alice in Chains. He threw in some Chevelle, tried his luck with Drake, and then played The Killers to which he was surprised to find the billionaire slightly humming to.

Around noon, Bruce tapping on the glass brings them out of the workshop, letting them know, via JARVIS, that lunch is ready. As soon as they finish with their lunch, and after a few looks from everyone else on the team - especially from Natasha - they make it back down to the workshop and keep working for a few more hours until Tony declares he has to get ready for his dinner with Pepper and the board of directors when his AI reminds him of it.

"Seriously, what is the point of having someone run my company for me when I still have to do things like this?" Tony grumbles as he makes final adjusts to their plans and begins shutting down programs.

"Company's called Stark Industries. It's still your company, no matter who runs it," Clint says shrugging, getting up to inspect the prototypes Tony has built.

"Yeah," Tony says with a deep weary sigh that causes Clint to look over at him. There are still dark circles under his eyes, his hair is disheveled, and there are new cuts on his hands from the arrow vanes.

"You used to have no problem skipping out on these things before," he says as they head to the exit, because it's the truth. Tony was notorious for missing board meetings, keeping his board members on constant edge about stock prices, doing whatever he wanted to do the way he wanted to do it. He was a whirlwind. But for all his faults as a businessman, he was ultimately successful; presenting new tech to his members that was more than enough to appease them in the form of millions of dollars in revenue.

"I know. But not even Obie - _Stane -_ was so adamant about me interacting with the board; then again he was trying to take the company away from me, so there's that. Okay, shut it down JARV."

"Yes, sir."

They take a moment to watch the glass darken before the pair of them make their way over to the elevator. A moment passes before Clint, for once, breaks the silence.

"Besides the obvious, why do you hate it so much?" Clint doesn't expect a full honest answer.

"Because they don't care. All they see are the numbers on their progress folders and for most of them those numbers just mean their salaries. After Stane, I spent months trying to replace some board members, but they're too legally protected. Some of them have been a part of the company since the beginning and have life long board contracts with few clauses. Frankly, I'm just waiting this out until some of them drop dead or get too sick to stay."

Tony has a tablet in hand and is busy typing away, but his tone is tired, still weary, and now Clint can't help but think about Tony's own stability or lack thereof. No one leaves three months of torture in Afghanistan along with recent events without something more than scars on their skin. Clint wonders just how deep Tony's go.

The Avengers were still too raw, he realizes, otherwise he and Tony wouldn't have had this conversation. The genius would have gone on a tangent, an incessant bombastic stream of words, until Clint either forgot the question he had asked or simply gave up pursuing it. He marvels at Pepper's patience.

He leaves Tony in the elevator while he gets off on the communal floor or rather the Avenger's floor as he's decided to call it. He heads towards the kitchen where he can see Bruce, Natasha (who has since changed into a tank top and yoga pants since their workout), Steve, and Thor. Bruce and Natasha are over by the stove while Steve and Thor bring out various plates and silverware.

"What's for dinner?"

"Indian," replies Bruce, turning from the steaming pot set before him on the stove, a gentle smile on his lips.

It takes him a while longer than he'd like to admit to remember India was the country the doctor had hid himself away in before SHIELD sent Natasha to retrieve him when shit hit the fan. Did the doctor miss India? Miss being anonymous, miss being as far away from the states and any American military organization as he could manage? Does he find their presence stifling, after so much time spent by himself? Can he breathe here? Since the accident, Clint knew the doctor did not stay in one spot for very long, a few months give or take, sometimes less. Clint thinks about whether or not Bruce will leave when he finishes analyzing the biological composition of the Chitauri.

He glances over at the pair by the stove and notices the distance between them, a distance most likely imposed by Natasha because he knows she still remembers the look in Bruce's eyes as he shifted and changed in front of her, as he struggled and lost the fight, doubled over in size, the recognition leaving his eyes. He's seen the security footage, can count the number of times in one hand he has seen the near petrified look in her eyes.

Dinner resembles breakfast in how Clint is Natasha's satellite, orbiting around her without trying to be too obvious about it. Tony's right, they aren't a team, the proof lies in the fact they aren't wholly at ease around each other. For as well as they fought together in the battle of New York, they don't trust each other, not where it counts.

Somehow, dinner is a quieter affair than breakfast. Natasha seems to be lost in her thoughts, and Bruce – without Tony around—is more withdrawn than usual. Steve and Thor are silently eating.

They all collectively turn their heads when they hear the ding of the elevator and out steps Tony in a well-pressed grey suit with a light yellow diagonally blue striped tie, hair artfully styled, actual black dress shoes on his feet instead of his usual high-end sneakers. The billionaire looks handsome in a way that makes Clint realize why he was named one of the top ten hottest celebrities by People's magazine. On his wrists, he sports his Iron Man bracelets.

"Ok, kiddies, I'm off to my meeting. If anything comes up, JARVIS can contact me and send one of the suits. I should be back in a few hours, sooner if I manage to piss off the board enough," he cheerfully declares.

They wave him off with mutterings of "Good luck," "Be back soon," and "Have fun, Stark."

Minutes later, Clint absconds out of the Avengers' floor, goes into the elevator, and—without pressing a button or speaking a word—is brought to his own floor. JARVIS seems to be picking up on whatever pattern of behavior he has established since living at the Tower. Has he always been this predictable? He tries to think back to his younger days, before SHIELD, before becoming a freelance assassin. He isn't sure. His life has never been what he would call predictable; growing up in a circus with an abusive father did not provide him with any sort of predictable schedule. It would have been far easier to avoid his father's rages, he reflects, had he known to not be inside their trailer at three o'clock in the afternoon because his father had gotten drunk, indignant due to some thing or other. Freelance jobs and SHIELD work resulted in a lot of moving around, from town to town, state to state, country to country. And while SHIELD provided far more stability than being a freelance assassin had, he was only in the country a few weeks out of the year. His surroundings are not breeding grounds for predictability, or stability; rather the opposite really.

He rummages around the pocket of the pants he wore last night for the pills Tony handed him, quickly uncaps the bottle, and pops two. He begins to change into his sleepwear (a t-shirt and boxers) when he pauses, staring at the black bag at the foot of his empty closet. This time, instead of tossing the clothes back into the bag, he sets them off to the side; the foundation of a dirty pile of laundry he is sure to amass over the next few weeks.

**Note:** ** "cOmrade" was the alias of a famous hacker named Jonathan James, who at the age of sixteen hacked NASA and the Department of Defense. His hacks, while harmless, cost the government thousands of dollars in repairing the security systems. Sadly, he committed suicide in 2008, two weeks after his home was raided in what was thought to be a connection to a sizable identity theft case. His suicide was tragically a result of his fear of being imprisoned for a crime he did not commit. Tony tells Clint to put on a white hat in reference to "white hat hackers." The term refers to those who break into computer systems in order to expose their vulnerabilities and then "patch" them up.

If you want to know more: .

Jonathan's page is #10

Thank you for reading! Reviews are fiercely loved! I love to know what my readers think!


	2. Chapter 2

It turns out sleeping pills aren't enough to keep the nightmares under lock and key; they wait to assault his brain until the dead of night. Once again, Clint finds himself gasping, gripping his gun as if it were a lifeline. He supposes that, in a way, it was. His finger is on the trigger, the safety off, and after a few harsh breaths he clicks the safety back on.

His finger remains on the trigger.

He used to keep a blade under his pillow until one night, after a particularly rough mission, Natasha burst into his room as he screamed his throat raw, his hand dripping blood onto the white hotel sheets from clutching the wrong side of the blade. For a moment, he recalls the burn of cold vodka, the sting and tug of ten stitches. He couldn't shoot his bow for a week and a half.

Sitting up, he tries to get his body's trembling to subside. At least this time he isn't drenched in sweat.

His internal clock tells him it's only a few hours until sunrise; the clock on his bedside table tells him it's four thirty in the morning, the numbers a red bold glow, hazy at the edges of his blurring vision.

He prefers the red to the blue, even if they both remind him of blood.

He considers slipping off onto Natasha's floor, burrowing himself in the warmth of her safe bed, the feel of her body beside his a comfort, but decides he's invaded her space enough since the invasion. Besides, he can do better, he can _be _better; or at least construct the illusion that he is.

He rises from his bed, leaves the confines of his floor, soundlessly saunters to the elevator, and onto the Avengers' floor only to be met with a familiar scene. Tony is, once again, sitting on a barstool chair with a drink in hand, this time intently staring at the brightly lit screen of his tablet instead of staring off into the dark with a glazed look in his eyes.

"You look like shit, Katniss," Tony says, briefly looking up, a mirror of their conversation the previous night.

"Har har, Stark."

Clint can only imagine the sight he must present. He tries to forget the view he caught of himself in the bathroom mirror, dark deep-set circles underneath hollow eyes, his hair standing on end.

The floor is so dark this night that it takes Clint a moment for him to notice Tony is still dressed in the suit he wore for his business meeting/dinner, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

Rounding the counter he ambles over to the pantry, pulling out a bag of chamomile tea from a small yellow box and the bear shaped container of honey, softly murmuring, "You should buy local honey instead." Setting the honey and teabag upon the counter he begins opening a few cabinets in search of a mug.

"Third one to the left of the stove," Tony helpfully supplies.

Opening the correct cabinet, Clint finds himself holding a purple mug with the words "Archers do it with a straight hard shaft" written around it in white cursive below the image of a black arrow. Clint turns towards Tony, arching an eyebrow, smirking.

"Really, Stark?" He manages to ask while biting the inside of his cheek to suppress the laugh caught in his throat.

Tony looks up at him, his face alight with the glow of his tablet, a smile on his lips, his eyes warm. "I knew you would at least appreciate my mugs, Barton."

Clint can't help chuckling as he sets about making his tea.

"Bruce appreciates your mug, saw him using it this morning, didn't protest when you handed it to him," he points out, placing his mug inside the microwave.

Tony snorts, "Please, I could hand Bruce an unpinned grenade when he's like that and he'd still take it and only frown when he realizes it can't hold his precious caffeinated fuel."

"And you wouldn't?"

"I made weapons for decades, Barton, I know when I'm being handed a grenade; whether drunk, sober, or in an un-caffeinated-zombie-like state, trust me I know," he retorts in a self-deprecating tone.

They both look down for a moment, Tony's words having cracked the joking atmosphere. Everyone knew Tony's past with weapons production was a sore subject. Clint doesn't think telling Tony that he used to use his weapons back when he was doing freelance would help raise the billionaire's spirits, even if he mentioned they were among the finest weapons he'd ever used. The reason the man had been dubbed the Merchant of Death by the media.

"How was dinner?" he asks, leaning his elbows against the counter opposite of Tony, warm mug in hand, feeling the warmth seep into his skin as the steam rises up. Regret surges through him as soon as he asks the question; Tony's smile has turned hard at the edges, his eyes shuttered.

"My board doesn't think I'm focusing on the company enough, is concerned about our stock prices, and want me to put this 'Avengers nonsense' behind me. Want me to let the rest of you handle things, while I lock myself in my lab and think of the next updates for our StarkPhones and StarPads that will surpass anything Apple could manage to produce by years," he runs a hand through his gelled hair, disheveling it in the process. "Pepper agrees with most of it, except for the bit about locking myself down in my lab. Says I do that now enough as it is."

"What are you gonna do?"

At this Tony's eyes light up with the mischief of a fifteen-year-old prankster. "Why, I'm going to give them the phenomenal software updates I did a month ago and then, maybe, depending on how much they kiss up to me, I may slip in the new hardware I designed two weeks ago. I'm gonna hold off telling them about the new energy stabilizer I'm designing until I can get a working prototype, though."

"Why don't you just release these things for the board as you create them? Or at least let them know you're planning them? Wouldn't it get them off your back about the stock prices and the bullshit about not being dedicated to your company?"

Tony shrugs, swiping at his tablet screen and typing. "It's a type of business strategy. First, giving them a good amount of new, awesome tech that you've seemingly pulled out of your ass, keeps everyone around you guessing as to what you're gonna pull out next. While it doesn't generally keep stock prices stable across the board, it does provide us with a good range. Second, if I did that then they would expect more from me because it would give the impression that I was always designing something for the company and then they would never cease asking me about the 'next big thing,' and I would have no choice but to blow my brains out. Third—and most important reason—it's one of the few ways I can get away with fucking with my board members without potential fallout, like a lawsuit. Really helps that there's only one of me; they wouldn't put up with this much shit otherwise, certainly not from anyone else."

"Sound business strategy," he says. "You planning on sleeping any time soon? You've been awake, for what, two days now?" Clint suddenly asks, making note of the shadows underneath the billionaire's eyes; they look darker, deeper set.

Clint's aware Stark is a notorious insomniac. He's not by far the worse case he's seen, but most insomniacs don't have destructive weaponry available to them with just the simple press of a button or a mass intellect along with a lab imposed with the most horrific safety laws in place. He knows that when engulfed in a project, the man will forego sleep for days. Knows that when there is no project to work on, the man will still not sleep, but rather tinker in his workshop until coming up with a new technological advancement. The genius will do anything to keep his sleep deprived addled mind occupied. He wants to ask more, but doesn't; he understands what it's like to fight off sleep for the sake of your sanity.

"Uh huh, something like that. JARVIS?" Tony asks raising his head from his tablet.

"Sir hasn't slept for more than thirty minutes in the last fifty-four hours."

Clint shakes his head and sips his tea.

"As long we're on the subject of sleep, I take it the pills didn't help. I can get you a stronger dose if you want," Tony says, his tone hesitant and soft, as if Clint were a cornered wounded animal who will lash out at him if Tony doesn't tread carefully.

His throat closes up as a wave of terror rises up and he almost chokes on his tea. His neutral expression must be slipping, allowing the swarm of emotion he is feeling to seep through, because Tony quickly backtracks and changes the subject.

"You ever see Game of Thrones?" The genius asks, as if he hadn't just been prodding at Clint's mental state a minute ago, gaging his stability.

"Uh, no," Clint replies as he turns away to wash out the now empty mug and place it in the dishwasher all the while struggling to rein in his emotions and keep a straight face. He clenches his hands into fists in an effort to control their trembling.

"What!" The billionaire shrieks as if personally affronted, it's not like anyone else is there to hear them. "And here I thought you were _cultured."_

Tony proceeds to hop off the barstool he was occupying, heads directly to the pantry, all but throws the door open, grabs a couple of bags of what Clint can see is popcorn, and dutifully throws them into the spacious microwave.

"Barton," he says pointing a finger at Clint, "sit your ass on that couch or so help me god I will restrict your range access."

More amused than anything, Clint does as he's told, stretching himself across the long expanse of the couch, grabbing the shabby red quilt someone (probably Tony) left behind, and all but cocooning himself with it. He's fiddling with a hole in one of the patches of the quilt when Tony comes back, plops a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of the couch, and returns with two mugs of coffee. Tony must have fished his out of the dishwasher and washed it in order to reuse it. Taking a small sip, Clint can taste the subtle burn of whiskey going down his throat. He knew there was a reason he approved of Tony. He may have told the man he didn't drink, but this night he could use a drink, and if Tony is anything, it's perceptive of others' drinking needs. Minutely, he begins to relax.

Tony sits himself, cross-legged, at the end of the couch, tablet set astride on his lap. The tip of Clint's toes just brush the pant clad thighs of the other man, a few points of warmth; Tony doesn't seem to mind the small physical contact.

"Cue it up JARVIS, Ygritte here needs to catch up on great television. Please tell me you've at least _heard_ of it."

At Clint's blank expression he runs a hand through his hair, a pained look on his face.

"Seriously, has SHIELD been keeping you under a rock?"

"I'm usually not in the states long; few weeks out of the year at most. This is the longest I've been continuously stateside; besides the time I spent in New Mexico when the shit with Thor went down and I wound up babysitting Dr. Selvig and the tesseract," Clint says with a small shrug, thinking of all the time spent up on his perch silently observing the eccentric scientist as he examined the blue glowing cube and studied the monitors before him, jotting down notes every once in a while; the way he would sarcastically ask if he was staying in his nest for the night and then offer him coffee once midnight struck.

Clint doesn't miss it.

"Jesus Christ, did you not have access to a TV, Barton? Seriously? Or how about a bookstore delivery? You should sue SHIELD on grounds of negligence, my god, how have you survived this long?"

"With a lot of arrows and a lot of bullets and a lot of blood on my hands. Now, are we watching this or not?"

He feels defensive. SHIELD may be a shady intelligence organization and Fury may be a hard man with secrets as vast and complex as the universe, spinning a web of lies more elaborate than any spider's, but well, it was better than what he had before.

Heeding his tone, Tony puts both hands up in apparent defeat. "Play it, Jay."

The first ten minutes are filled with an eerie sense of dread and absolute confusion. When the group on screen returns to the site of the dead ritualistically placed bodies and they are gone, Clint glances over at Tony only to find a mischievous expression on his face.

"What the hell are you having me watch?" he alarmingly asks once the opening credits begin.

Tony doesn't reply, merely smirks at him and continues to work on his tablet, occasionally sipping his alcohol saturated coffee and grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on Clint's lap.

When the elevator opens an hour later, both men turn to look over the couch to find Steve stepping out dressed in running shorts and a black tank top; considering his clean state the captain has yet to go out for his morning run.

"Morning, Cap," Tony calls out to Steve as the man heads towards the fridge only to slightly falter, turn his head, and stare at the archer and engineer on the couch.

"Uh, could you be a dear, grow some antlers, and pass us the bottle of whiskey on the counter?" Tony asks, breaking the nearing awkward silence.

For a moment, Steve just stands fixed to the spot, seemingly confused by Tony's words, and then, with a slight nod of comprehension, he is heading over to the kitchen, and grabbing the whiskey bottle Tony left on the steel countertop.

As Steve approaches, Tony quickly glances over at Clint, only for his eyes to land on the bottle warily, before Clint makes the connection and everything clicks. He snatches the bottle Steve means to hand to Tony and before he even thinks to utter any sort of apology, Tony speaks up.

"You should really read my file, Cap. I don't like being handed things." Clint uncaps the bottle, reaches over, and pours more whiskey into Tony's mug; he catches the grateful look Tony inconspicuously sends his way. "You should forgo your morning workout and join us instead, this can be step one into getting you familiarized with the twenty-first century. I take it Fury didn't do much on that front."

"Didn't get the chance to," Steve calmly replies, opening the fridge and taking out ingredients to make a sandwich. "Invasion happened a couple of months after I woke up."

"Well, take a seat Cap, we'll catch you up," Tony says gesturing towards the unoccupied armchair to his right.

Clint keeps his expression neutral, gaze on the paused face of Eddard Stark, suppressing his surprise. He'd heard, via Natasha, about the words exchanged on the Helicarrier mere moments before he had launched his attack and the residual tension that seems to permeate any type of interaction between them since. He's unsure what he finds more startling, the fact Tony extended the invitation or the fact Rogers sits, a smile tugging at his lips, his eyes alight, his sandwich on a plate on his lap, as Tony speedily gives him the run down of the first episode.

The archer notices Tony zoning out around six am, watches as the soft glow of his tablet dims until the screen darkens, the only light that of the TV and the arc reactor.

"Have you read any of our files? Besides the standard SHIELD ones? I mean, have you read our character files?" Clint silently asks Steve, glancing over at Tony to make sure his sleep remained undisturbed. It's early enough in the morning where he doesn't feel like he should be sleeping, where he can focus more on the day and less on the night. It's a small comfort.

"No," Steve hesitantly replies, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand, "it, uh, seemed like an invasion of privacy."

"First chance you get, read our files. There are things none of us are comfortable discussing, Steve, but these are things you should know if you hope to have a chance in hell of leading this ragtag team Fury scrounged up together," he replies, giving Steve a meaningful look, wordlessly imploring him to understand the fact he can't treat them like that, expecting them all to have a group heart-to-heart post battle. He needs Steve to understand how fucked up they all are and how to make it all work.

Steve nods curtly. Assuring himself the genius remained asleep, Clint continues.

"I was under the impression you two didn't get along, that you hated each other actually."

At this Steve looks over at him, his eyes searching, seemingly assessing him for a moment before he speaks.

"Hard to hate a man that houses you without asking for anything in return. Besides, I was wrong."

There is a hollow look in Steve's eyes Clint has grown to intimately know. Unfortunately, before Clint can ask the soldier what he was wrong about, an alarm blares throughout the tower.

"JARVIS?" Tony croaks, having suddenly awoken to the strident sound.

"Director Fury is on the line with an urgent message, sir."

"Ugh, tell him consultation hours are from nine to five," the genius replies, rubbing his stiff neck, gingerly moving it from side to side.

"Tony," chides Steve, his tone authoritative, his Captain America mask having fallen into place.

"Don't get your panties in a wad, Rogers."

Tony waves a hand dismissively, a signal JARVIS interprets as allowance to push the call through.

Clint sits up straighter when a holographic screen appears suspended in the middle of the living room showing Fury sitting at his desk, back at SHIELD HQ in New York. They'd relocated to a building in the city in order to deal with the Chitauri cleanup and containment. The man bears his usual hard expression, but Clint has known him long enough to identify the tired lines of his face, the tense set of his shoulders.

"This better be important Fury, the sun isn't even out yet and –"

"There is already a car en route to pick up your team, Captain," Fury reports, cutting Tony off mid tirade, addressing Steve instead, who simply nods and rises from his seat, the good soldier he is.

"Hang on, if you think—" Tony fiercely begins, indignation coloring his tone, only to be cut off by Fury once more.

"We've been hacked, Stark. I need you all to report in to discuss the inevitable clusterfuck that'll result from this."

Tony looks like he wants to say more, but instead he merely nods, the call promptly cutting off.

"JARVIS alert the rest of the team, tell them we're meeting in the lobby in twenty."

"Yes, sir."

"Scale of one to ten, how fucked do you think we'll be because of this?" Tony asks Clint, twisting in his seat to face him.

"Budapest," Clint promptly replies, disentangling himself from the quilt, smoothly rising from the couch.

He misses the questioning look Tony sends his way.

* * *

><p>The amount of information SHIELD holds is vast; its importance beyond measure. Tony may be able to bypass it's firewalls every other day with apparent ease, but Clint designed those firewalls, knows the great skill needed to bypass them, knows the inevitable clusterfuck will come from a major player. As he showers and dresses, he ponders what the target of this cyber attack was. Was it mission related? Were ops compromised, agents in danger? Or worse, were they after information regarding the Chitauri, the lethal weapons he was aware Fury held in his possession?<p>

He meets the rest of the team at the tower lobby five minutes later, joins them in waiting for the transport Fury sent. Tony looks more awake than he has all night or rather morning, considering the time. He's pacing a few steps from the rest of the group, his ever-present tablet in hand. Bruce stands by Tony, looking haggard, quietly murmuring when the other scientist gets close, tipping the tablet screen for Bruce to see. Both Steve and Thor are quietly waiting by the door.

Deciding to let the genius and the others be, he heads over to stand by Natasha, who is casually leaning against a wall, covertly watching the others, the most alert of them all. She rakes her eyes over his body as he approaches, her expression minutely softening.

"You still aren't sleeping," she quietly notes, green eyes meeting his own.

"No," he admits. If she were anyone else, he would have scoffed; either ignored the observation or bitingly informed them to mind their own business. The nature of their partnership is such that they don't lie to each other. The trust linking them too hard won. That doesn't stop him from changing the subject of their conversation.

"What do you think?" he asks. There's no need for him to elaborate. They know each other intimately; he could have just as easily asked the question with a simple look.

"Budapest," is her laconic reply.

He chuckles at that and at the arched eyebrow he receives in lieu of a response, he explains, "That's what I told Tony."

"You know now he's going to hack SHIELD and read that mission report, right?" She asks, amusement swimming in her eyes.

He grins, leans his back against the wall, beside her, and says, "Good. All the better to prepare himself with."

* * *

><p>An hour later the Avengers find themselves inside an incredibly spacious warehouse on the fringes of the city; a clear remnant of the Industrial Age that had swept the country up all those years ago, ushering in a wave of smog, laying the foundation for a sleepless generation.<p>

"God, this is prodigiously banal. Seriously, did Fury just bring us to a warehouse in the outskirts of the city? I feel like I'm in a sleazy crime novel," Tony pontificates as they make their way inside, led by a nondescript SHIELD agent dressed in standard agency black.

Miraculously, the car trip to their new location had been relatively quiet, with Tony spending the entirety of it working on his tablet, the rest simply silent as they stared out tinted car windows to watch the sun slowly rise over the broken city, illuminating the remaining piles of rubble yet to be cleared away. New York eerily resembled a post-war zone; the effect was surreal.

All throughout the hour-long ride, Clint saw the destruction, saw the leveled streets, the ruined buildings, and could not help taking responsibility for it all. Sure, he may not have been the direct cause of it, may not have been the one who actually caused the destruction, may not have been the one to hand over the keys to the gates, but he had inevitably provided the foundation for it, had set up the necessary stepping stones for the devastation to take place, had smashed the gate open.

Halfway through the ride he felt something hit him in the chest and land on his lap. Looking down, he realized it was a StarkPhone, a message on the brightly lit screen that read: "_This is the first prototype of the new model. I figure if it passes whatever test of approval you have then it's good enough to go into production. FYI JARVIS has direct access. Go crazy. -TS." _He dutifully spent the rest of the trip doing just that, figuring out every feature of the new device, making note of the changes in code he'd make, grateful for the distraction.

Snapping himself away from the memory, he focuses on the direction they are going, casting covert glances here and there, checking his surroundings; it's a habit he can't seem to shake no matter where he goes, but has decidedly saved his life numerous times.

He's only been inside SHIELD facilities a handful of times since the invasion occurred. He still doesn't meet the eyes of the other agents, doesn't know what he'd do if someone approached him and accused him of killing his lover/friend/brother/sister/colleague, except lay there and take it. An action he's sure would earn him nothing but anger and exasperation from his partner; Natasha doesn't understand she can't defend him from this.

Still, he doesn't meet their eyes and they don't meet his. He likes to think it's a silent understanding.

They are led to a room at the top floor of the warehouse, what must once have been the manager's office. Now, it is all but gutted, containing a round glass conference table with surrounding chairs, a single flat screen against the east wall. Fury is already there, standing at the head of the table, slightly off to the side of the screen, Deputy Director Maria Hill on his left.

The Avengers file in, take their respective seats, and turn their eyes towards Fury – all but Tony, who is already rifling through the matching file that has been left in each of their respective seats. Clint sits left of Natasha, burrowing himself in his hoodie; struggles not to focus on Coulson's conspicuous absence.

Fury looks each and every one of them over, before proceeding to brief them on the situation.

"Okay people, at 0300 hours we had a cyber security breach. Our guys managed to contain the attack, limiting the intruder's file access, but we don't know what good that did because we are sadly and completely unawares as to what they were after to begin with, though we can hazard to make a few educated guesses," Fury declares, glaring at each one of them in turn with his one good eye, hands dutifully clasped behind his back. His stance is tense in a way that causes both Clint and Natasha to sit up straighter.

"How?" Tony asks, his eyes fixing Fury to the spot. "You're SHIELD, and someone just went in and _hacked_ you? Tell me, how does that happen, Nick?"

Clint is aware of the mirth Tony is trying to hide, he can see it, clear as day, in the slight twitch of the billionaire's grim set mouth; he's sure Fury can see it too. The glare Fury sends his way is enough to make a lesser individual cower, certainly most—if not all—of the agents under his command, but Tony's glare never wavers.

"After we assessed the damage done to our systems after the attack on the Helicarrier," Fury sternly continues, decidedly choosing to overlook Tony's outburst, "we realized our firewalls weren't as secure as before. We've had the guys over in our security department patching up the holes in our system, holes that apparently _keep_ fucking popping up in different lines of code as a result of the virus delivered to the system."

At the mention of this, Clint bends his head down, blankly staring at the tabletop. He was already responsible for the Helicarrier attack; his ledger already steadily dripped red. What was a little more?

"And you want me to take care of it," Tony sighs; the truth of the statement irrelevant, as he pulls out his StarkPad and begins working.

"Exactly what information has been compromised, sir?" Steve calmly asks, from the end of the table, directly facing Fury.

"The file in front of each of you is the report compiled by our techs," Fury answers, motioning to the aforementioned folders, which Steve hastily pulls open and begins to read.

The archer's attention is brought back to the matter at hand when he feels a kick that leaves the shin of his right leg throbbing. Glaring from underneath lowered lashes at Natasha he straightens up, pulls the file to him, and begins skimming. At first glance, the information in the report seems inconsequential: numerous passwords and passcodes listed to various entrances relating to scattered SHIELD facilities, superficial data on the Avengers one could acquire from watching national news, and schematics Clint knew to be a decoy by the apparent lack of a significant portion of air ducts and misplaced corridors. He's about to comment on this when Fury once more speaks up.

"The information they were able to obtain appears to be inconsequential at best, all passcodes and passwords were effectively changed as soon as we noticed the attack taking place. There are, however, a few ops that have been blown and while they were of importance, they also seem to be random targets. Still, we aren't taking chances and have extraction teams already on the way for the agents' whose cover have been blown."

Clint sees Steve giving the Director an expectant look, urging him to continue and deliver the bad news. Steve, Clint notes, is adept at reading between the lines, of hearing what remains unsaid.

Fury takes a breath, and rubs a hand over his weary face. It's in this moment that Clint takes note of the newly added age lines that mar the Director's face, the bag that hangs from his tired bleary eye. Fury, more than any of them, had to deal with the technical aftermath of the invasion, had to reestablish parts of his agency, had agents and friends to bury, had to assuage political figures. Clint can't imagine that last one had gone remotely well, considering all the reports of politicians worldwide growing increasingly worried about the possibility of another alien invasion. This is the most human he has ever seen the other man appear. Fury was a pillar of steady strength and clear headedness within SHIELD and to see him tired, haggard, and honest to god weary was enough to make Clint and the rest of them fill with unease. Beside the man Hill appears much the same. For a moment, the ground beneath his feet feels unsteady.

"Whoever it was found one of the holes and took advantage of it. What we know about the Chitauri, they know. The only thing stopping them from breaking down our doors and stealing our weapons is the fortunate fact they have no clue where they're currently being stored. Let's keep it that way."

While Fury may have been looking exhausted and weary mere minutes ago, the edge of defiance was back now. Clint could see it in the tense set of his jaw, the way it jutted out in clear opposition, the hard set to his mouth, the gleam in his eye.

"'_Our'_ weapons?" Tony asks, a white-knuckle grip on his tablet. "You mean the Chitauri weapons, the ones you've been hoarding all along after Bruce and I fucking told you to destroy them? The ones you're apparently trying to somehow replicate? You mean those weapons, Nick?"

At Tony's short, yet ardent speech, Bruce sits up in his chair, pulls off his glasses and begins the process of cleaning them against his cotton t-shirt. For all the act appears to be calming and soothing, Clint saw the shine of green in the scientist's eyes before he closed them to take a breath.

"Those weapons constitute weapons of mass destruction," he states, perching his glasses once more atop his nose. Steve grows increasingly tense at this. "You can't recreate them, it's not feasible. First off, those weapons are biologically attached to the Chitauri and recreating them means either recreating their specific biology or modifying the biological aspects of those weapons to fit our own biology. Neither option is simple; attempting either one would take years, decades, it would involve learning the genome of an entire species of which we only have dead specimens of and then manipulating it. Secondly, Tony and I thought you might resort to this and we've actually discussed it." His eyes never waver from Fury's own as he continues, "We won't let you."

"The hell you won't, Banner! Have you looked around? The world is in desperate need of these weapons!" Fury bellows.

"You mean like they were in desperate need of the HYDRA weapons?" Steve asks hotly, all but thrumming with anger.

"The world has changed, Captain. Our enemies have grown in number since your time. When it comes down to it, we are highly outnumbered and hilariously outgunned," the Director replies, pointedly looking at Steve. "We just got _invaded_ people! An _alien species_ descended upon the earth with the sole purpose of _destroying_ it!"

"We know, we got the memo, we were fucking there! And we took care of it!" Tony yells.

"If you all think this won't happen again you're more ignorant than I took you for. And if you think we actually fucking _won_, well then, I pity you. All this," he makes a hand gesture seemingly encompassing everything around them, "is just the beginning. You're a smart man Stark; you know this. What did you do when you were still making weapons and the terrorists managed to come up with something bigger and better, huh? You scurried down to your workshop and invented a more destructive weapon and handed it to the military gift-wrapped with a bow."

"Yeah, and there's a reason I stopped making weapons," Tony states in an eerily calm, steady voice.

"Because it was the fault of your own land mine that resulted in that embedded in your chest?" Fury rhetorically asks, pointing at the arc reactor hidden beneath Tony's jacket and shirt.

Clint stills, eyes quickly scanning Tony who has been momentarily stunned into silence. He hadn't been aware it had been one of Tony's own weapons that had aided in his kidnapping. Steve, Bruce, and Thor are staring at Tony with various expressions on their faces, ranging from pity, to horror, to an unexpected quiet understanding from Thor. Natasha is the only one not looking at the genius and Clint took that to mean she had somehow known, of course, she knew Tony better than they did as a result of her undercover position at SI last year. All the same, Clint could see the anger in her eyes at the Director's words.

"You want to know what I learned in my three month stay in Afghanistan? I learned that weapons only serve to exacerbate the problem, Nick. All holding a big stick does is get you a harsher beating," he says, shaking his head, all the while grabbing both the file and his tablet as he rises from his seat and walks out the door.

The rest of them take a moment to glance at each other before they promptly rise and follow Tony out of the makeshift conference room. Clint supposes it's their first true act as a team, since having been thrown together during the Chitauri Battle.

"Your Man of Iron is correct, Director," Thor solemnly says, pausing on the threshold in front of Clint, his gazed firmly fixed on Fury. "I suggest you heed his counsel," he continues leaving an incensed Fury behind.

"Sir, perhaps we should—"

Clint hears Hill begin to speak as he swiftly walks out the door, her voice becoming a distant whisper the further he gets from the gradually closing door.

* * *

><p>Charles Bernard "Barney" Barton, aka "Trickshot," pauses the image on the tape, sits up on the rickety motel bed to polish off the rest his beer, and lets a widespread grin split his face. He takes a moment, presses rewind, watches the trajectory of the shot in slow motion, tracks its origin, and <em>there.<em> High on a rooftop, a familiar blurred figure stands with a bow and arrow, shooting, watching the chaos below. It isn't the fact every arrow perfectly hits its intended mark that causes the flash of recognition to burn in his eyes. No, it's the form. In that moment, watching the way the figure angles his arm, the way he extends the other to pull the shoot, the way he holds his feet slightly apart, the way he seemingly shoots without looking, he knows.

That's Clint, all sleek moves and shit form. After years of searching he finally has a location: New York City. Who would have thought his younger country boy, circus-performing brother, would move into the big city?

Pausing to wipe the blood that has slowly streamed down his chin due to reopening his split lip, Trickshot grabs the phone off the bedside table and hits redial, his veins thrumming with electricity.

"I told you I could help you regain what you have lost," answers a steady, male voice with a thick Middle Eastern accent.

"I'll go, I'll take the job, but I'm not returning until I take care of a few things. Understood?" Trickshot says, getting up to grab his black duffel off the floor, heading to the small motel closet, and grabbing his sparse clothing.

"Of course, we have already planned for your side venture," the disembodied voice says, his rough words carrying through the static creeping up between the tenuous connection.

"How much?" he asks, because he is a steadfast believer in never doing anything for free; a lesson ingrained in him by his father.

"Three million. Five if it's done quickly, with minimal collateral damage and no trace that leads back to us. Those weapons are your number one priority."

He nods before he can catch himself, yanking off a shirt from its hanger, and stuffing it in his duffle, creased and unfolded. "This is going to take time, months, maybe half a year, maybe more. I can't say for sure; they may be disorganized in the wake of that invasion, but their type sleep with one eye open. Slipping in won't be simple, or smooth. I'll send you a list of what I'll need. You sticking with this number?"

"Yes. I will require monthly reports, of course. I have sent you an address; there you will find cash, a card for expenses, a fake passport and accompanying identification papers should you need them. There are also instructions on how to leave the country you are currently in."

Trickshot doesn't ask how he knows so much about him. There are times he still finds it odd, how these people contact him with a job, via phone or through one of the many emails he regularly checks. How they know more about him than he does about them. "Trickshot" is a name that is exchanged via a soft whisper and only among a specific crowd. He stopped questioning all these things years ago; the answers are irrelevant.

"Sounds like we have a deal. I'll make contact to confirm recovery."

He hangs up the phone and turns back towards the TV, facing the paused figure standing at the edge of a New York City rooftop. Reaching for the remote, he un-pauses the image, and sits on the edge of the bed, watching as the figure plunges from the rooftop edge, shoots an arrow, and swings through a thick glass window. Without giving it thought, Charles' hand rises to rub at the puckered circular scar on his chest, only several inches above his heart.

He can't wait to reunite with his little brother, and return the favor.

* * *

><p>"I swear Fury has a god complex that rivals Christof's," Tony says irritatingly as they make their way outside the SHIELD warehouse, leaving their SHIELD escort behind with a hard glare that discourages the poor agent from following them.<p>

Seeing Steve scrunch up his face in confusion, Clint helpfully supplies, "Controlling asshole from The Truman Show; it's a movie," to which Steve just nods. Tony just grins over his shoulder at him as they near the warehouse doors.

The sun is bright in the clear, cloudless sky as they emerge and Clint mentally bemoans the fact he hadn't thought to bring sunglasses, until Natasha walks up next to him and silently slips him his favorite pair. In return, he slips her the keys he stole from their SHIELD escort. These two gestures completely sum up the relationship between them, he thinks.

With Nat behind the wheel of the car, Clint sits in the passenger seat beside her, while Tony, Steve, Bruce, and Thor are in the back seats of the SUV. Clint will forever remember the image of Thor inside a car; even inside a SHIELD issued SUV, the Asgardian had to occupy the last row of seats by himself, while Bruce sat in between Tony and Steve.

"You forgot about the virus, didn't you?" Natasha asks, glancing over at him before turning her eyes back onto the road. Like him, she is wearing dark sunglasses, but while he may not be able to see her eyes, he can see her thoughts through the set of her mouth. Her lips are thinned together; the barely perceptible lines around her mouth are set and hard. He can feel the stillness that settles over the others as she voices her question. In the rearview mirror, he can see Tony has stopped fiddling with his tablet and is staring directly at him. For a second, their gazes meet in the mirror. Clint doesn't know what to think when Tony drops his first.

Letting his head fall back on his seat, he allows the fatigue he is feeling to seep into his tone when he says, "I don't even remember making that virus, Tasha; not its specific code anyway. And Fury never asked me to handle it after everything settled down. Figured it must not have been that serious."

Natasha looks over at him once more, the lines around her mouth creased in concern.

"You know," Tony chimes in, his voice carrying over the soft music playing from the radio, "it'll be easier to get SHIELD's security back up and running if you help me out. I get you don't remember the specific code, but you made it and only you know how you think, so uh yeah, there's that. Plus, you designed most of SHIELD's firewalls and this is really a two person job, because I am _swamped_ with SI work and I need to tell Fury that I can't—won't—keep coming to his rescue, to fix whatever mess his IT agents have done. Not for free, anyway."

"Good, Clint will help you," replies Natasha, her eyes never wavering from the road and the accompanying morning New York traffic as she makes a sharp shift into another lane. "After we all have breakfast; it's Clint's day to cook."

Clint silently bemoans ever having left his bed.

* * *

><p>"Wow."<p>

"What?" Clint asks leaning over to look at the screen Tony is working on beside him.

"Your code is sophisticated," Tony says, and there's a note of respect in his tone. "Shit, Legolas, you should quit this spy gig you got going on and come work for me. Pretty sure SI has far better benefit packages than SHIELD, plus you get paid vacations and I've read part of your file, I know you haven't gone on a vacation in god knows how long."

They've been down at the workshop for hours, pouring through data logs, mapping out the holes in the security system the hackers must have undoubtedly used to bypass the SHIELD firewalls. They were also struggling to figure out the coding of Clint's virus and how to break its perpetually repeating cycle of renewal. Clint had to admit, the virus looked like his best work yet.

Fingers rapidly flowing over the keyboard in front of him, eyes sorting through lines and lines of code, Clint snorts, "Unfortunately for you, my contract with SHIELD is non-renewable." Not that Clint has thought about leaving, because in all reality his job was essentially a set part of his identity; he couldn't imagine doing anything else, he'd probably find it too banal or plebeian.

"Wait, what? 'Non-renewable,'" Tony says, the half murmured words curling curiously around his tongue as if they were utterly foreign to him. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Clint merely shrugs, a move meant to relieve the tension in his muscles. "Can't leave SHIELD. Or well, technically I can, but then…You know what? Maybe you should widen your search parameters."

At this, Tony stops working and swivels his chair, facing Clint. He has an eyebrow raised in question that only serves to exacerbate Clint when he turns to look at him; it almost mirrors Natasha's own. "You sure about that, Barton? Because I'm getting some major 'back off' vibes from you, if you don't want to tell me something, then fine. You don't have to tell me a damn thing about yourself. I may hack SHIELD every other day and treat firewalls like gateways whose flimsy locks are just calling out to be picked, but I do have some concept of privacy, even if I do sometimes think it doesn't apply to others."

"Tony, you have an AI wired throughout this entire tower who records everything that happens," Clint calmly responds. He's intentionally messing with Tony; he honestly hadn't expected Tony to back off so quickly, or to even stop to consider what Clint really wants. He's gotten too used to SHIELD invading his privacy lately, especially since Loki. He honestly believed Tony had already hacked into SHIELD, looked up what happened in Budapest, and gave in to the urge to read the rest of his personal file.

"What! Okay, now I am offended! Do you honestly think I sit around in my workshop _spying_ on you all? Oh, god, no, don't answer that. Honestly, if anyone should be worried about getting spied on it's me and everyone else, considering you and Natasha are the resident spies," Tony babbles, but by the mischievous glint in his eyes Clint knows the engineer knows he wasn't being serious. The archer is silently grateful Tony has gone and rolled with the obvious change of subject.

Smirking, Clint says, "Don't forget assassins, too."

"Oh god, I made a terrible mistake, didn't I? Letting you all live here, under one roof," Tony replies with a groan, letting his head tip back against his headrest, eyes looking at the ceiling.

Clint can't help but laugh a little, causing Tony to smirk amicably in return.

"I did look up what happened in Budapest," Tony says after a few minutes of them working in silence.

"Figured you would, wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise," Clint replies, eyes never drifting from his screen.

Tony merely nods, "So you and Natasha…"

"She's my partner," Clint laconically replies, intentionally avoiding Tony's searching eyes.

"You almost died trying to get her. Your mission was to kill her, but instead you brought her in and you became partners. SHIELD's most successful partnership at that; your mission record is practically spotless. Why?" Tony asks quietly, yet firmly.

"It was the right call," and now Clint stops working, he knows where this conversation is going. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned Budapest. It was a mission turned FUBAR at best.

"Oh, I don't doubt that. For all that she's scary as hell, she's valuable, I get that. What I don't get is why you went through all the trouble of hiding what you were trying to do from SHIELD. They could have done something. Instead, you and Natasha got pretty banged up. Some broken bones, week in med bay, suspended training and missions for you for a month. You had to be evac'd out of there. You left behind a war zone. All for someone you just met, not to mention all you knew about her was that she was an assassin, a damn good one."

"What happened to you understanding the concept of privacy?" Clint curiously asks. He knows he's going to end up answering Tony's questions, someday. But he also wants to know if Tony will back down, wants to know where the lines are in this, what, friendship?

"Hey, you mentioned Budapest. You knew I'd look it up and I bet you also knew I would have asked about it whenever I got the chance. So, that leads me to two conclusions, either you seriously need to read up on the Tony Stark Operating Manual—a copy I'm pretty sure you can get from Pepper—or some subconscious, psychological part of you wanted me to ask about it. Who the fuck knows. The point is you mentioned it, now you have to spill."

Clint steadily huffs out a breath. Tony has a point. He can see himself subconsciously reaching out to someone who is, in a sense, outside of his problem, someone with an unbiased view of who he is. Tony doesn't _know_ him, for all that he has read about him. He's made damn sure that all of who he is isn't contained in some cybernetic file someone could just hack into. Unfortunately, Clint doesn't know what to make of the fact his subconscious seems to have picked Tony of all people to open up to.

"Not many people know this, but I've known Natasha a long time, Tony; longer than I've known any one at SHIELD," he settles for saying; he's not going to give away more than he has to. Tony is getting to close, asking about a part of his life only Natasha truly knows.

"So you and Romanov have a history? That goes beyond your partnership at SHIELD?"

Clint nods. "Yeah, and I…well, I owed her. And that's all you're getting from me, Tony."

"Why is your file so empty?" Tony suddenly asks, genuine curiosity lighting his eyes.

"My file isn't empty," Clint says, shaking his head.

"Yeah, in a sense it is," Tony says, eyes looking the archer over. "Everyone else's, well except Natasha's, but I can understand Natasha's. Anyways, everyone else's file is an open book. Practically everything about them is in there: Cap, the serum, the speculations around his relationship with Barnes; Bruce and his accident, his relationship with Betty; hell, even Thor has a file that has more personal information about him than yours does on you and he's from another fucking planet!"

"And what about your file, huh?" Clint shoots back, annoyed.

"What about my file?" Tony asks, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Trying to convey casualness, all the while being defensive. "Natasha wrote my file, didn't she?" he says, smirking.

"Yeah, she did, but the file in the SHIELD servers is redacted to hell and back; don't think SHIELD doesn't know you go in there and alter it every now and then. Fuck, even what Natasha got on you wasn't all that accurate, considering the fact that, not only were you dying of palladium poisoning and acting erratic as hell, but you're you! You're practically a professional bullshitter, Stark! You want to know so much about everyone else, but you don't want anyone to really know anything about you!" Clint screams, enraged. He isn't entirely certain where all the anger is coming from, except that it's there, that it's been there; wrapped up with all the hurt, all the guilt, and all the _fear._ Someone took him, stole him from himself; used his body and his mind for their own personal gain and the thought of locking himself away as tightly and securely as he possibly can is the only thing keeping him sane.

Clint doesn't remember rising from his seat, but all of a sudden he is looking down at Tony who's still sitting, arms crossed in front of him defensively; Tony opens his mouth only to close it, eyes wide. For a brief moment, Clint sees a flicker of what he thinks is a mixture of hurt and guilt in the engineer's eyes. And for that brief moment, he feels a wave of guilt that threatens to consume him. Gripping the back of his own chair until his knuckles ache, Clint takes a deep breath, strives to regain his composure.

"Clint—" Tony says, his tone pacifying.

"Don't, Tony," Clint says, eyes closed; suddenly feeling tired and weighed down, he sinks back into his chair. "Just don't."

"No, I think you need to hear this, because I understand, okay? Trust me, I get it," he says, brown eyes brimming with a fragile open honesty. It's a look he doubts many have seen on the man. "Why do you think I hack into SHIELD and delete part of my file, or add misinformation to it every once in a while? But this is clearly eating at you, Legolas. You haven't had a good night's rest in weeks. You should talk to someone; doesn't SHIELD have a nice department of shrinks trained to deal with all the bizarre crap that's part of your line of work? I mean, I'm sure a shit ton of people needed a shrink when Thor unceremoniously dropped down from the universe and I bet a few more had a fucking religious crisis, too."

Clint doesn't tell Tony he hasn't sleep well in years, or that he refuses to go to a SHIELD psychiatrist for fear he killed someone he or she knew. He just says, "It's not that simple, Tony," abruptly turns around and strides out of the workshop, his steps heavy.

* * *

><p>Clint finds Natasha laying on the bed of her apartment, in silk black sheets, propped up against several pillows, a book in her lap, a few strands of hair hanging about her face that have escaped the thin elastic band enclosing her small red fiery bun.<p>

"I'm taking off," he states, leaning against the wall. He doesn't pause, doesn't hesitate. For a moment, he feels like his old self again, assured in a way he hasn't felt since the Battle of New York, since Natasha told him about Coulson after forcefully "recalibrating" him, her tone hushed and soft in a way that had instantly caused a cacophony of alarm bells to go off in his mind.

Natasha frowns, a slight downturn of her lips, and sets her book aside atop the bedside table. He watches as she straightens against the soft pillows, as her eyes narrow, and he steels himself for the questions he will have to answer; after all this is Natasha, they've decided long ago to answer to each other.

"What happened?" she asks, steel in eyes.

Clint pushes forward, takes a few steps toward her bed, and sits at the edge meeting her hard eyes. "I need some time away, Nat."

"Clint—" she says leaning towards him, the steel in her eyes easing until they become soft.

"I feel like I'm drowning here," he responds, deflating, the assurance he felt minutes ago seeping away through his pores. He feels riddled with holes.

"You know what would happen if you keep running now," her hand reaches out to hold his own, their pale hands a stark contrast to the black sheets; he's thankful she didn't choose red, doesn't think he could've handled the image of their hands immersed in red.

Refocusing on the words she's just uttered, he knows she's right, he does know. He would keep running; keep moving from suffocating place to suffocating place in a desperate attempt to outrun SHIELD and leave his memories of blue behind, drowning all the while.

"Fuck…yeah, I do," he murmurs as he runs a hand over his haggard face. "You sound like him," he can't help muttering, can't help comparing.

"Someone has to," she proclaims, a smirk lining her lips. "Now get in."

She throws the sheets back.

Laying next to her, listening to the sound of her breathing while she continues to read, he pulls the slim StarkPhone from his pocket, scrolls through the contacts already programmed in and sends one text: _I don't want a SHIELD shrink._

The reply chimes in an hour later, pulling him back from the haze of semi consciousness: _Okay._


	3. Chapter 3

**Author Note:**

Yay new chapter! Let's call this my Halloween gift to you all. I've had this written for a while now, but I went on a crazy edit spree. I didn't mean to be this late in posting, but working on my research manuscript took up more time than I thought and along with everything else for school just left me exhausted. I'm not even done *sigh* Anyways, enjoy! As always, beta'd by the beautiful, lovely, and spectacular cheerful dispositions!

*Trigger warnings for a panic attack and flashbacks.

Chapter 3

_"The human race tends to remember the abuses to which it has been subjected rather than the endearments. What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars." -Bertolt Brecht _

Three am finds Tony down in his workshop flicking away yet another holographic screen in sheer frustration.

There is too much data and at the same time, not enough. The molecular analysis Bruce did of the Chitauri, while thorough, leaves too much room for speculation—more than either he and Bruce is comfortable with. They have been studying these samples for weeks now, but there's only so much they can glean from a dead sample, an alien one at that. All they have are untested hypotheses and educated guesses. He and Bruce speculate Chitauri cells must have a mode of communicating between cells that are outside of the organism, specifically with other Chitauri cells. What else could explain the way the Chitauri dropped dead once the nuke Tony flew into space detonated, destroying what Tony refers to as the "mothership"? And while Bruce seems to have alienated a few unknown cell structures he hypothesizes must be involved in such a process, he has been having trouble testing his theory considering all their Chitauri samples are, well, dead. Their daily reports to each other are filled with more unknowns every passing day and Tony's frustration has increased with every new question. But he can't remember the last time he encountered this significant a challenge and he would be lying if he said part of him didn't relish it.

For a moment, Tony halts he constant holographic flicking and zooms in on a scan of the Chitauri gun laying atop his workbench, only to flick it away a minute later as well. He has a working theory that the guns must somehow activate via electrochemical impulses—much like the human brain sends messages throughout the body. According to Bruce's report, all the necessary chemicals are present: sodium and potassium, among a few others. But, again, Tony can't test his theory due to their dead sample. Although, now that he thinks about it, he could create a program to run the proper simulations. Unfortunately, given the fact the Chitauri are made up of several chemical compositions they have never previously encountered nor heard of, any simulation would be incomplete and still in the realm of uncertainty. Fucking aliens, he thinks.

Still, the biological and mechanical processes are so thoroughly fused together, that Tony won't have a chance to study the mechanical parts until Bruce finishes his initial report on the biological nature the weapons seem to have as a whole. Sure, Tony could do his own biological analyses, but Tony is, first and foremost, a mechanical engineer. Tony also knows that Bruce needs to do those analyses, knows they make him feel useful and good. They give him a chance to feel as if he is giving back to the city, making up for all the collateral damage done by the Hulk during the battle. Tony knows they assuage his guilt—though he himself doesn't believe Bruce has anything to feel bad about to begin with—so Tony asked that he do them, claiming the biological aspects of the Chitauri were more Bruce's area than his own.

Tony stops flicking through screens when one in particular catches his eye. It's the backtrace he asked JARVIS to do on the SHIELD hack. The signal keeps bouncing from server to server, but… there's almost a pattern. And Tony can't believe this because whoever hacked SHIELD was _good_ and good hackers just don't commit these types of solecisms, they don't. It's obvious someone failed their Hacker 101 course, Tony thinks, either that or it was purposeful.

"JARVIS?" Tony calls, already settling in his chair and pulling up the tracker screen on the monitor. "Identify the servers that have bounced the signal the most and pull them up on this monitor."

"Yes, Sir."

When a map of the Middle East comes up on the monitor with several red dots spaced throughout, JARVIS continues,

"There appear to be six servers that are the primary bouncers of the signal, Sir. All of them scattered throughout the Middle Eastern area, however there are two in Afghanistan that appear to have the highest rate of cyber traffic."

Tony stares at the map, at the blinking red dots, and tries not to think of a confining hot cave and a car battery in his chest. For a second, with frightening vividness, he can feel the graininess of sand on his skin, hair, and clothes; feel the way his clothes stuck to his sweat damped skin. He feels his breath quickening as JARVIS zooms in on the general area and all Tony can see is an expanse of desert that goes on for miles and miles, endless in its reach, and he can just feel the heat on his dry cracking skin only to suddenly feel himself submerged under cold water once more, his lungs longing for air to the extent of burning.

"Sir?" JARVIS says and Tony isn't quite sure how, but there's concern there, has always been concern there. There are parts of JARVIS he coded while drunk, lost in an engineering binge, and he has no memory of these occasions, but somehow he managed to wire concern into JARVIS' code, and it's amazing, always amazing, he thinks, that he managed to create JARVIS, the one thing in all the world who knows him best, who has been with him almost longer than anyone else, and Tony's breathing keeps quickening, his gasps becoming shallower, but he focuses on JARVIS, on the concern there, and he tries to stop breathing for a bit to see if that would make it better, but he just ends up shaking and taking big gulping breaths when he can't hold his breath anymore and that just reminds him of drowning, so he grips the edge of his workbench until his knuckles turn white and his hands ache, as he fights to forget.

"Sir, it is three-thirty am and you are in New York, in the tower's workshop. You have been here for approximately thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes," JARVIS begins, his tone calm and precise.

Tony shuts his eyes and fights to control his heaving breaths, focuses on the information JARVIS is providing: the date, time, location, the current temperature in the room, and what he had been doing for the past hour before his attack hit. It isn't until his breathing slows down that he releases the death grip he has on the bench and manages to uncoil his tense muscles. Opening his eyes, he sees that JARVIS switched the screen. Instead of the endless expanse of desert sand, he sees floating pictures of what must be the most adorable puppies in all of existence in various stages of play. He can't help but huff a rough laugh at their short little legs and floppy ears.

"Thanks, Jay," he says, his quiet voice loud in the silent space.

"You are welcome, Sir," comes the soft reply.

When he feels a tap on his shoulder he turns to the side and notices Dum-E is there, his claw outstretched as he holds what looks to be a chocolate shake towards him. He can see You and Butterfingers in the background, both apprehensive to come closer. His bots are quiet, none of them chirping with their usual merriment, and he can't help but feel a little guilty over the fact.

With trembling fingers, he takes the shake from Dum-E and pets his mechanical claw in wordless thanks; when Dum-E chirps in response, Tony smiles. The gesture reminds him of the many times Dum-E had brought him a similar shake after one of his numerous nightmares and/or panic attacks after returning from Afghanistan. Once he had left the conference and returned to the familiar comfort of his home, he had shut himself up in the workshop for weeks, sleeping on the couch, fighting off nightmares. It had been the one place he had felt safe, secure, and like he were finally home. For three weeks his routine had been composed of panic attacks, horrific nightmares, coffee, and a plethora of shakes, along with whatever food JARVIS ordered for him. On the morning of the fourth week, he began building Iron Man.

After finishing his shake (he swears he tasted a hint of motor oil in it), he decides to go up to the communal kitchen in search of coffee. He can't go to sleep now, not after having a panic attack like that. If he somehow did, nightmares would only plague his mind and startle him awake.

"Okay, JARVIS," he says, rising from his seat, "scan the region and compile a report of any active groups currently operating within a fifty mile radius of those servers that pose a threat. Send it to my tablet when you finish."

"Yes, Sir."

When he gets to the communal floor he notices the kitchen's lights are off, but there is a faint blue glow along the walls that lets Tony know someone is watching tv. He pauses at the threshold, his mind going over everyone's sleeping habits, only to realize there is only one person who could be awake at this time of the night.

With light quiet footsteps, he ambles towards the couch, seeing a familiar head of blonde hair peeking over the top. He comes around the side and casually plops himself down, taking a seat beside Clint, who turns towards him to mutter a short greeting, turning back to the tv screen once more.

Tony can't help but feel a bit uneasy when he takes his seat beside Clint—the last time he saw the archer was when they argued down at the workshop and Tony uttered words that caused Clint to walk away from him. That was two days ago. Two days they spent avoiding each other; Tony locked up in his workshop, fixing SHIELD's systems, welding away his frustrations, and Clint down at the range, shooting arrow after arrow. Tony may or may not have asked JARVIS about Clint's whereabouts throughout those two days. He feels the urge to say something, possibly apologize, but before he can come up with the words to say, Clint speaks.

"You know, I blame you for this," he says, gesturing towards what's showing on the television.

When Tony notices what Clint is watching, he cannot for the life of him contain his laughter. He laughs until the tension leaves his body and his unease seeps out from his pores leaving him light with relief. Glancing over at Clint, he can tell the agent has relaxed—his spine no longer as straight, his shoulders less taut.

"It's only because I'm all caught up on the show that I'm not only going to accept the blame, but apologize as well. You don't know what you're in for, Barton."

"Stark, they killed Stark!" Tony can't help it, he chokes on his breath as he guffaws once more. "What kind of show kills off their own fucking main character!" Clint glares at Tony as if he were responsible for this.

"My dear Ygritte, soon enough you'll learn no one is safe in this game," Tony tells Clint once his lungs contain enough air.

"Fuck, something told me I shouldn't have kept watching it after that first night," Clint shakes his head, but Tony can see the warm amusement in his eyes.

"You know, I came up here for some coffee, but now that I think about it, waffles and ice cream sound good—alongside the coffee, of course. You in, Robin Hood?" Tony asks, his tone colored in mirth.

"Sure, I'm down. But, you know, you do need to sleep, right Tony?"

"Yeah, no, not tonight." Tony's limbs feel heavy as he rises from the couch, and he thinks Clint must have noticed something because he doesn't ask Tony about it. He's grateful; Afghanistan is a topic he doesn't wish to revisit, even though he recognizes the signs that he'll have to face everything he tried so hard to bury in the near future.

Tony sits with Clint for hours, watching episodes of Game of Thrones he's already seen, laughing at Clint's reactions, all the while bantering back and forth as they eat the waffles Tony put in the toaster and covered in strawberry ice cream. A part of his mind reflects on the fact that this night appears to be an echo of their previous ones: they always seem to find each other in the middle of the night at the communal floor, both running from the terrors sleep brings them, somehow managing to gravitate towards each other. He wonders if their friendship will only consist of these echoes, always confined to the still, dark hours of the nighttime. He wonders when he began considering Clint an actual friend, not just a coworker, not just a teammate, but an honest to god friend. Tony can tell Clint doesn't want anything from him; he doesn't want his money, doesn't want to latch onto his inevitable limelight like many others have previously done—hell, Clint doesn't even want him for his weapons, he could invent his own.

There's something freeing in this knowledge, Tony realizes. He can breathe around Clint, can settle next to him without the usual tension that seems to coat most of his conversations with other people.

With a pang, the thought that he hasn't been able to do so with Pepper these past few weeks resonates within his mind. He's noticed she's been distant, focusing more on the company than their relationship, but that could be due to the widespread panic the invasion caused. Truth is Tony isn't sure what any of it means and it worries him, her apparent distance and withdrawal. Looking over at Clint, he shoves the thoughts aside with an ease born of years of practiced repression.

Tony wakes to the blinding morning light of the rising sun. Groaning, he turns away as if on instinct, pulling the blanket over his head in a feeble attempt to block out the sun. His mind drifts in the groggy space between conscious and unconsciousness and it takes him a full couple of minutes to realize he is not laying on his bed, that he's still on the couch, wrapped in a warm quilt someone must have draped over him. It takes him another minute to become aware the rest of the Avengers are shuffling about in the nearby kitchen; it's only the fresh smell of coffee and the delicious smell of breakfast that beckons him to rise, quilt still draped over his shoulders.

Upon seeing him, the rest of the Avengers shoot him amused glances; particularly Clint, who hides a snicker behind a cough, though his glance is more fond than not. Tony glares at him, knowing full well who's responsible for his current state.

"You're an ass," he mumbles, perching himself atop a barstool at the kitchen bar beside the archer.

"I'm sorry," Clint chuckles, "I didn't realize I was supposed to put you to bed."

Tony decides to ignore the double entendre in favor of the plate of toast, bacon, eggs, and pancakes Steve places in front of him, alongside a steaming cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Cap."

Steve gives him a small smile which Tony acknowledges with one his rare genuine smirks. Ever since Steve moved into the tower, he and Tony have been working on their relationship, trying to get past the explosive fight they had on the Helicarrier. Tony knows that Steve is a good man. He's aware of the ghosts that haunt Steve's footsteps every waking moment. He knows that Steve is still adjusting so he's made it his personal mission to help the man acclimate. He's given Steve a StarkPhone and commanded JARVIS to assist the Captain with whatever he may need; he even programmed lessons on the basic workings of the internet, Google, satellites, and commonly used social media sites. When it comes to technology, Steve is adapting faster than Tony anticipated.

Tony's finishing off his toast when he hears a shrill beep come from off to the side. As soon as it sounds though, the others groan in utter exasperation.

"Ah, the foul noise returns once more," Thor proclaims.

"I thought someone turned that off?" Bruce wonders aloud from his seat at the kitchen table, his green Hulk coffee mug in hand.

"I did," Natasha answers, a scowl on her features that causes worry to churn in Tony's stomach—he's seen what Natasha is capable of.

"I told you we should've just thrown it out the window or something," Clint mutters beside Tony.

"Okay, what the hell are you guys talking about?" Tony wonders, when another shrill beep sounds and the others all groan in annoyance once more.

"It's your tablet," Steve says, turning off the stove and making a plate for himself, "it hasn't stopped beeping since we came in this morning. We looked at it, but we couldn't unlock it to see whatever notification it had. Natasha just turned it off, or I think she did." He looks over at Natasha with a questioning glance, she just glares back.

"I did," she says, rising from her seat at the kitchen table to stalk to the fridge, extending her arm to retrieve something from the top.

"Uh, why is my tablet on top of the fridge?" Tony has to ask because, while he knows he has the irksome habit of leaving his tech everywhere, he's certain he hadn't left his tablet on top of the fridge last night. Or maybe he had? "You know what, don't answer that. I know what the alert is. JARVIS, why didn't you wake me when the geographical scans came in?"

"Sir, you have slept a total of four hours in the past two days, I thought it prudent to not immediately alert you."

Beside him, Clint huffs a laugh. "Your AI takes better care of you than you do, Tony."

"Barton, if Steve hadn't cooked this morning you would be scouring the pantry in search of stale cereal," Tony retorts taking the tablet Natasha laid in front of him and unlocking it with a biometric scan.

"And you would have only had coffee for breakfast."

"I don't know where you're getting your information from Legolas, but coffee constitutes a meal," the genius claims.

"No it doesn't, just because your IQ is higher than anyone else's here, besides Bruce's maybe, does not mean you can just—"

"Boys," Natasha says, ending what Tony knows would have been a harebrained argument. "Stark, did the scan JARVIS conduct have anything to do with SHIELD's hack?"

"Yes," he says, his mind spinning through all the possible scenarios that would allow her to know this.

Even before revealing her identity as a SHIELD agent, Natasha had unsettled Tony. At first, this caused him to hire her, to try and figure her out; not to mention she had the air of someone strong and competent enough to be his PA, to manage his life while dealing with his numerous "eccentricities." Natasha gives the impression that not much gets by her. He's read her mission reports and knows she has the uncanny ability to focus on minute details no one else seem to notice. It's not Natasha's ability of being able to take him down outside of the suit in one fell swoop, without breaking a sweat, that uneases Tony. No, it's her mind. It's her ability to comprehend the hidden meanings in her surroundings that unsettle him, her ability to read the silences, that cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Natasha knows and Tony wonders just how much.

"I backtraced the hack, narrowed it down to a few possible locations, and had JARVIS scan the region for any active terrorist groups," he states, recovering from the slight fluster he felt at being reminded of how much Natasha knows, of how much she notices while the rest of them live unawares.

Once he starts to read the report, Tony feels his muscles tense as a slight spike of fear shivers up his spine, he supposes he should have known though. Organizations like the Ten Rings don't just go away, don't just disperse in defeat after taking a hit. For a moment, Tony is reminded of Hydra, of how its members used to proclaim that if one head is cut off, two more will take its place. Gathering his resolve, Tony rises and motions for everyone to follow him into the living room where he displays the results on the wall hanging monitor with only a second's hesitancy that appears to go unnoticed by all except Clint, who is looking at him with veiled concern.

The rest of the Avengers crowd around him in order to get a clearer view of the screen. Tony can tell Steve and Thor are at a loss, having no idea what the results mean, but by everyone else's reactions they can see they mean nothing good. Clint, Natasha, and Bruce, on the other hand, are tense beside him. It is Natasha who breaks the silence.

"I thought you took care of this problem, Stark, when you got out of that cave."

While her words aren't cruel, Tony still has to fight off the urge to close his eyes, to ascertain the status of his arc reactor, to shake his shirt so as to get rid of the uncomfortable grainy feeling of sand on dry, chapped skin. For all his control, he can't help but shift his stance.

"Tony, are you okay?" Bruce's eyes roam over Tony's form, his tone concerned. But Tony can't answer, not yet.

"Can someone please explain what the Ten Rings is?" Steve questions, looking from Tony to Natasha to Bruce, a note of frustration in his voice. It's clear he isn't used to being in the dark, isn't used to having to have so many things explained to him, not when he's supposed to be their leader, not when he's supposed to be the one guiding them.

"You have got to read our files, Cap," Clint says causing Steve to duck his head. Sometimes Tony forgets just how young Steve is; for all that he's lived through—the Great Depression, World War II, an alien invasion—the man is not even thirty.

Tony collects himself, berating himself for allowing the weakness to show. It has been well over a year and a half. It was high time he got over it, put his less than stellar experience in Afghanistan behind him. He beat the odds, he survived. That's what matters. Everyone had thought him dead and he had escaped, had built what had then been his most advanced piece of tech, and risen up like a metal encased phoenix metaphor personified.

"About a year and a half ago, these guys kidnapped me while I was doing a weapons presentation in Afghanistan. That's how I got this," he says, tapping the arc reactor casing. "Long story short, they asked me to build them weapons, I said no, they got pissed, and three months later I built the first Iron Man suit and got out." He leaves out the part of him torching the compound to the ground, of how shrill screams filled the air as the flames devoured everything in their path. He refuses to mention Yinsen, because despite how long it has been, that particular memory is still too raw. Yinsen gave him more than he would ever know and the fact that Tony's here, that he got out alive, but that Yinsen didn't unsettles him to no end, a painful unease that sits heavy on his chest.

"The Ten Rings is a terrorist organization, primarily based in Afghanistan. They're highly secretive. Based on SHIELD intel, their mission is to cause instability whenever and wherever possible. Whoever their leader is gets off on destabilizing regimes, causing civil unrest to the point it escalates to civil war. They're suspected of being responsible for a significant part of the unrest going on in the Middle East right now. No one can prove anything, though. A few years ago, SHIELD had an agent infiltrate one of its cells. According to the agent's reports, each cell has a leader and no cell actively communicates with each other or with the top boss—or bosses, again, we don't know. Each cell just gets a shipment of supplies, mostly weapons. That's all we know; the agent was killed a few months into the mission and SHIELD hasn't tried infiltrating the Ten Rings since." Clint's tone is hard, yet matter of fact and while his low voice doesn't resonate his tone leaves an impression.

Tony stares at the picture of Raza, at the cold black pools of his eyes, and thinks about the first time his head emerged above water, coughing and spluttering, his lungs screaming for oxygen, only to go back under again. For a moment, his breath catches in his throat and his lungs burn.

"Who are the rest of these guys affiliated with?" asks Natasha, breaking Tony out of his reverie. All the photographs of Raza JARVIS has accumulated are those involving meetings, some sort of exchanges. Each photograph shows Raza shaking hands with different men, in different locales. It's then that Tony focuses on the burns that smear the right side of Raza's face; he can't help but feel a perverse sense of pride over them.

"Affiliation unknown, Agent Romanoff," JARVIS declares.

Beside Tony, both Natasha and Clint stiffen. It's almost imperceptible with the way they were trained to move, but Tony can see how Clint's shirt tightens around his muscles and how Natasha's whole body stills to the point Tony wonders if she's still breathing.

"We need to work on identifying these men. You should send this to Fury, he'll want to know if he doesn't already," Natasha says, her voice as calm, cool, and collected as if she were discussing breakfast options with the rest of them.

Tony nods, part of him feels numb. He wonders whether it would have helped if he had reviewed this information down in the workshop by himself before showing the rest of them.

"Tony, who exactly is this guy?" Bruce asks, patting and rubbing his hands.

"His name's Raza, he was the leader of the compound that took me," he answers, eyes never leaving those endless pools of black. "I burned half his face getting out."

Trickshot thinks that if anyone were to look close enough they would be able to see the slow and steady—almost subtle—descent Russia is heading towards. It's been more than twenty years since the Berlin Wall fell, since Nikolai Gorbachev gave in to his people, and yet it's clear the country is reverting back to its old Soviet ways.

And it starts the way it always does: with fear.

Trickshot has spent a month or so in Moscow and during that time has learned to read the ever present fear that permeates the city's streets. But where there is fear, there is often anger. The tide of civil unrest is rising and Trickshot can't think of a better time to leave the country. Change, after all, can be a bloody process. And while there is fear, anger tips the scales. Russians have never been a trusting people. They don't put much trust on the governments of other countries and they sure as hell don't trust their own. History, he thinks, has taught them well.

The address his new employer sent him turns out to be a PO box in one of the city's main postal offices. Inside he finds cash, a credit card, a fake passport that sports a picture unknowingly taken of him sometime in the last year, a fake birth certificate (he sure as hell isn't in his twenties), a fake driver's license, and a sealed envelope he guesses contains his escape route. When he opens it though, he finds another slip of paper containing a different address. Plugging it into his phone's map app reveals the location is in Afghanistan, somewhere on the outskirts of Kandahar. Trickshot stuffs everything into his duffle bag and gets going, never one to remain in one place for long.

His way out of the country turns out to be a black, battered early 2000s Toyota Camry he finds in an almost empty parking garage in the middle of the rundown Kapotnya district. The instructions sent state the birth certificate, license, and passport should hold up to inspection by the border patrol. When he looks in the glove compartment of the car, he finds registration papers with the fake name that match the rest of his papers: Viktor Dragunov. He doesn't mind the Russian name, knows that it would be less suspicious for a Russian to leave the country than an American—they were too noticeable, too conspicuous in this part of the world. An American's presence was always noticed in these parts, for the worse.

He gets in the car and makes his way to Uzbekistan, only stopping to stay at a motel once, when his eyes can no longer withstand the long, endless expanse of road without dropping shut every half hour or so. Crossing the border into Kazakhstan proves to be simpler than he thought, even with the armed guards patrolling. His Russian is rusty at best, but over the years he has managed to perfect the common phrases—enough to not arise suspicion to the fact he's an American.

Kazakhstan proves to be an endless expanse of road as well and Trickshoot stops in seedy gas stations to refuel the car and grab snack foods along the way. He spends one night in Kazakhstan, in a small town near the Uzbekistan border, before once again getting in the car and moving on.

Clint watches the slight tremors that run through Tony's hands as the genius grips his tablet with worry. They're all sitting in the conference room Tony had installed within the Avengers' common room.

"You're sure?" Fury asks, his voice projecting through the conference room's speakers.

"We have visual confirmation, sir. Raza's been spotted making deals with an unknown," Natasha reports.

"Send me the files."

"We need to figure out what exactly they want, sir. Tony's history with them is concerning. They should know that if they come after one of us, they come after all of us," Steve says, meeting everyone's gaze when they all turn towards him.

It's a silent agreement, their second act as a team. It seems that nothing rallies them faster than imminent threat.

Coulson would have been proud, though he wouldn't have mentioned it. But Clint would have known, after years spent in the field he had translated Coulson's minute expressions. They became Clint's favorite language.

"Is it not clear?" Thor asks, his deep voice snapping Clint back to the here and now.

"Thor?" Steve prompts.

"They seek the Chitauri weapons, Director. I informed you, Director, that the tesseract was a signal to all the realms your world was prepared for a higher form of war."

"The Ten Rings isn't some damned alien race, they're human terrorists!"

"Hell bent on causing chaos for the hell of it. Thor's right, the tesseract, the invasion, the fact that we won, it all signals to us owning some advanced weaponry. People are going to think we—that SHIELD—has it and they're gonna come for it. The Ten Rings kidnapped me so that I could build them advanced weaponry and now they're simply aiming to steal it. See Nick, this is what happens when you ignore my advice. After all, aren't I just a consultant, isn't that what you wanted me for?" Tony sneers, but Clint can read his growing agitation in the incessant tattoo his fingers beat against the hard oak wood of the table.

"I am afraid, my friend, that even had the Director done as he should have, this group would not have believed such a declaration. It is the treacherous nature of war," Thor says and Clint wonders at the Norse god's age, wonders how many battles he's seen carried out, how much destruction.

"You should never have fished that out of the ocean," Bruce says shaking his head. "It's only caused more trouble than it was worth, first Loki, the Chitauri, now this. How long before we have another invasion?"

"Are we even sure stealing the Chitauri weapons is their end game?" Clint questions.

Natasha narrows her eyes in his direction. "What are you thinking?"

"This feels off somehow. They don't have the resources for this, not after the revenge bender Stark went on after he built Iron Man. I've read the reports, he decimated fifteen compounds. This is too big game for them. If they're really aiming to pull this off, they'll need help. And even then they must have read we still don't know how to operate those weapons, all those reports they looked at were filled with nothing but theory and speculation, no empirical data. Why come after weapons they won't know how to activate? Why risk themselves like this when the benefit doesn't outweigh the risks? If Tony and Bruce haven't figure out the mechanics behind these things, I doubt the Ten Rings has someone who will."

Fury stares at Clint through the screen and he can see the director assessing him, beginning to ponder over the same questions himself.

"We need to learn who that unknown party is. Agents Romanoff and Barton, start reaching out, call in whatever favors you have. Whether legal or illegal I don't care, someone out there knows something about this and I want to know what it is."

"Yes, sir," they reply in unison and the video feed cuts off.

"Tony," Steve says, "they aren't taking you again. We won't let that happen."

Tony huffs out a mirthless laugh. "Cap, even you can't promise me that, but if they come for me again there'll be nothing left of them," he says, his eyes darkened and hard, before walking out of the conference room.

Clint doesn't doubt his words. While he's read Tony's file, it doesn't contain much information on what happened in the three months he spent locked within that cave. Most of the information contained is speculation based on accounts of others who had also had the misfortune of being kidnapped by the Ten Rings. If even half of those speculations are true, Clint can understand why Tony avoids sleep, why he drinks like a fish, and why all the showers in the Tower are the stand up kind.

Tony's been in the lab for an hour when the doors open and his music shuts off without warning. He's been on a knife's edge ever since the impromptu briefing and had come down into his lab for solace, for the type of comfort being surrounded by his creations and his own genius can give him. But there's little comfort to be had after learning the Ten Rings is still operating, that despite all he had done, they were still standing, plotting. He feels a swell of irritation at the sudden intrusion, only for it to melt away when he turns around to see Pepper.

"There was a board of directors meeting this morning, Tony. You missed it."

The way she folds her arms, along with the resigned look in her eyes and her hesitant steps, disconcert him. He's seen Pepper seething with fury, has seen her cry of pure joy and relief. He's seen the way Pepper looks at him when he's drunk too much, the way her lips tighten into a thin, pale, bloodless line. He's seen the way Pepper's eyes have hardened as she sent off the numerous women he slept with. He's seen Pepper stand tall with determination, feet solidly on the ground, eyes steely with the strength needed to run a Fortune 500 company.

He's never seen her hesitate.

He's never seen her step falter like it did just this moment as she ambled into the workshop. He's never seen the resigned look in her eyes—not aimed at him. The looks he was used to were of fond exasperation; no matter the situation there was always a hint of fondness in her gaze when she looked his way.

Pepper looks tired in a way he's never seen her before, smaller too, though he guesses that's because she's out of her customary, ever present high heels.

Nausea curdles in his stomach when he realizes the fondness has been replaced with a quiet, yet sad, resignation.

They haven't spent much time together since the invasion, since Tony gave in to his impulses and invited the Avengers to move into the tower. While the tower underwent repairs, Pepper had been staying in a hotel in the city, overseeing the plans to move the company's headquarters to the city. But the reconstruction finished weeks ago and Pepper has yet to move in. He questions whether or not he should move out, get a separate space for him and Pepper and leave the tower for the rest of the Avengers.

"Tony."

His name is a sigh on her lips.

"Pep."

"This isn't working anymore, Tony."

"Pep, no come on. I went to that dinner last week, showed the board those new designs. This morning was just…something came up is all." He wasn't telling Pepper about the Ten Rings. If he does, she would be frantic with worry they would come for him again and Pepper doesn't need that. She already has enough to worry about trying to manage a company that has taken far too many financial hits over the past few years and god knows how many PR hits since he was born.

"That's not what I meant, Tony. Even before all of this, you weren't much for managing the company. I can handle that about you. I—" Tony's never heard Pepper stutter before, never seen her wring her hands, but she is and he doesn't know what to do with that so he picks up whatever piece of tech is closest and starts dismantling it. "Tony look at me." And when he does she stills, taking a breath as if gathering her strength. "I meant us, Tony. We aren't working anymore."

He flinches back when the loud crash of the tablet he was halfway to dismantling clatters to the floor, loose pieces scattering every which way. Fighting the burning in his eyes, he scrambles to pick up the pieces—the tablet's screen is cracked, irreparable. Smaller hands join his in an effort to pick up the tiny loose screws, but Tony rises and steps away, leaves the dismantled tablet strewn on the floor.

"You're breaking up with me."

If he's honest with himself, he'll admit to having been waiting for this moment. He and everyone else have known that Pepper deserved better than what she was getting with him. She deserved someone who was attentive, who would remember their anniversaries, who remembered that strawberries caused her to break out in hives and made her mouth burn. Pepper deserved someone who made her life easier, not harder.

Considering she's the one terminating their relationship, Pepper looks distraught. There are tears in her eyes she is struggling to keep in check, though her efforts don't prevent the reddening of her eyes, nose, and cheeks. She appears as if she's lost something precious to her, which confuses Tony because she is the one leaving, not him.

"Yes, but it's not—" Pepper steps closer and Tony can't help the one step he takes back, can't help crossing his arms over his chest. The flinch she fails to hide causes hot regret to well within him, but not enough to take it back. She wrings her hands, fingers twisting the ring around one of her fingers.

"You don't need me anymore, Tony. I'm not sure you ever really did, at least not in that way."

Her words cement the thought that's been rattling around in Tony's mind since she stammered out her words: He doesn't understand, any of this. He didn't need her anymore? Tony needed her more than he needed anyone else. Pepper was his constant, his grounding point whenever he flew too high and needed to be brought back down to Earth. Pepper steadied him and kept his self-destructive tendencies in check—for the most part. But the point remained that with Pepper around Tony drank less, left the soothing confines of his workshop more often, ate at semi-regular intervals, and even made it a point to spend more nights sleeping in his own bed because he knew she would be there waiting for him, a comforting warmth by his side—though admittedly without her living in the tower all of these things occurred less often and he spent more nights in the workshop than not.

"Pep, I love you."

Her smile is as watery as the day he came home from Afghanistan; it doesn't reach her eyes.

"I know you do and I do too, I'll always care about you. But…that's not enough, Tony. I—I've gone back to being your assistant. I spend more time nagging you about board meetings and R&D design preparation than I spend being your girlfriend. You have a whole team looking out for you, who give you a purpose beyond the company. You don't need me like you used to and I need that, Tony. I need to feel more than wanted, I need to feel needed and you don't need me anymore than you would a friend and an assistant, that isn't enough to sustain a relationship."

"Can we talk about this?"

A stray piece of hair falls loose out of her bun when she shakes her head and curls around her cheek. He resists the urge to step forward and push it behind her ear.

"I need to do this, Tony. For the both of us."

Pepper leaves as quietly as she came in, though in the still silence of the workshop her footsteps echo.

Tony stands there for a while, enveloped in a silence that holds a too heavy weight, staring at the broken, scattered pieces of his work and the lone ring that sits atop the work desk.

A half hour later the workshop is in critical lockdown. The music from the speakers is a blaring cacophonous sound and a half a bottle of whiskey flows through Tony's blood. With each passing moment the world is becoming more of a haze and Tony lets go, sinking deeper and deeper until the weight in his chest is nothing but a warm burn. At one point, Dummy tries sneaking the bottle from the workbench, but Tony proves too fast and snatches it back, taking another swig, embracing the slow burn spreading in his chest.

Trickshot enters Afghanistan as the sun rises in the horizon and arrives in Kandahar at around three in the afternoon.

The last time Trickshot was in Afghanistan he was on a job with Duquesne, before they had attracted too much attention and had decided to part ways. Even now, years later, he feels a bitter stab when he thinks that for Duquesne, parting ways had meant trying to take him out with a bullet to the head. It was that lesson, above all, that taught Trickshot the fluid nature of loyalty. People are only loyal to those who prove advantageous, who are useful, who provide more benefit than risk to keep around. And when their use runs out, when they're more trouble than they're worth, when they become loose ends to be tied up, they should be put down like a rabid dog. Loose ends are unpredictable and cannot be afforded. It's this hard learned lesson that allows him to push back the bitter regret, to pull the trigger and to tie up the loose ends that come with the job, though he's never enjoyed taking a life that he wasn't paid to take. It was a waste, plain and simple. And if half formed memories of a woman with clear blue eyes whispering words of love came to mind, while together they caught butterflies in the yard only to release them once more, he sets them aside. Too much time has passed from then; he isn't the same anymore and she's somewhere he can't follow, at least not yet.

Kandahar is the second largest city in Afghanistan and there are people littering the streets everywhere he turns. The weather is a drastic difference to that of Russia and he can't help the shiver that runs down his spine when he thinks of the harsh Russian winter spent in a broken down, ramshackle building, shivering as he tried to staunch the blood of a job gone bad. Focusing on the sweat dripping off his skin, on the warmth seeping through and looking up at the hot, blinding sun, he thinks he prefers scorching summers instead. The weather reminds him of his mother, the skies above him a parallel to the clear blue eyes that never failed to make him think of the blooming spring. With effort, he pushes the thoughts of her away into the recesses of his mind and gets out of the car.

The address the employer led him to turns out to be a decrepit warehouse in the middle of an abandoned industrial district. Trickshot tries not to roll his eyes at the obvious cliché as he makes his way to the entrance. The instructions given to him state he is to meet someone here, though he doesn't know what for. The inside of the warehouse is dark, the only light coming in through the holes in the walls and ceilings. Shadows fall across every surface and for a heartbeat he thinks the warehouse is empty, but before he turns back he notices a crack of light coming from one of the doors to the left. The plaque on the walls reads "MANAGER," the Pashto and Dari letters underneath; but before he can outstretch a hand to turn the doorknob, the door swings wide open.

"Finally. I was about to call, thought you might have gotten stuck at one of the border crossings or just bailed on this idiotic mission altogether. Come on in, we got plans to make. I'm Rumlow."

Trickshot only hesitates a minute before walking in after the man who is covered in tactical gear from head to foot, heavy duty combat boots laced on his feet. It's obvious his presence has been expected. He can read in Rumlow's movements that he is some sort of agent—though Trickshot's not sure whose—and has had military training. He has a strong jaw covered in at least a week's worth of stubble and a voice that speaks of authority—he's someone who is used to being in charge, used to dictating orders and having them followed without protest. Trickshot already knows they won't be getting along; hell, ever since Duquesne he has worked alone. Duquesne taught him that a partner was another loose end.

The office is compact compared to the warehouse's main room, but there's a desk littered with laptops and a bed pressed against the far left wall, beside a door marked "RESTROOM." The old, yellowed, abandoned books lining the small bookshelf on the right only confirm what he's suspected: the warehouse and the surrounding buildings were owned by some U.S corporation. Although, he's pretty certain it belongs to whoever hired him. He's learned that certain groups do that, buy old, abandoned buildings that were owned by some American corporation. It's a sick joke, terrorists cells establishing bases in American made buildings.

When he notices Rumlow resting against the desk, he says, "Trickshot," by way of greeting.

Rumlow raises an eyebrow and snorts. "I swear there must be something in the water."

Before Trickshot can reply, though, the door to the restroom swings open to reveal a masked man in tactical gear, his face framed by brown, wet hair. Normally, he wouldn't think anything of the man and his mask, after all, in their line of work keeping your identity a secret was as important as getting paid. But the man has an entire arm made out of metal, and that, Trickshot thinks, isn't fucking normal.

Looking into the stranger's eyes reminds him of a pale, lifeless blue and endless Russian winters.

**Author Note:**

*Grins maniacally* Penny for your thoughts?

This is getting more exciting, isn't it? I already started the fourth chapter and I'm hoping to write and post two more chapters before the end of the year. I can't really say when the next update will be because I'm still working on my research manuscript (I know way too much about distress tolerance) and I have four other papers to write. Plus, my dear aunt is coming to visit on the 9th and will be staying with me for two weeks (why she feels the need to visit me during the busy month of November I will never know, there is a thing called summer lol). Oh!

So I made a tumblr specifically for my writing stuff (though I keep accidentally posting things that don't belong there!). It's .com.

Feel free to hound me for updates or sneak peeks and enjoy me venting my frustrations when I loose plot ideas because I am an epic failure because I forget to write these things down! I gotta be honest, I lost track of what I planned for Ch. 4 and it was going to be so good too! I will get it back somehow! It's in my brain...somewhere. Or scribbled somewhere on the margins of my systems of care notes. Thank you to everyone that has favorited this, subscribed, and left me lovely comments! They mean a lot and they make me very excited to be sharing my stories with you all :) You're all amazing!

*Disclaimer: I've actually no idea if former U.S owned buildings are/have been bought by terrorists groups.


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